


Perpetual Motion

by Fay (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Johnlock love story, Angst and Humor, Chastity Device, Exhibitionism, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, John/minor OFC, Light Bondage, Lover's quarrels, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Renegotiation of boundaries, Romance, Sex Toys, Sherlock's first date, Shower Sex, Slight Self-Harm, Unconventional Relationship, Virgin Sherlock, Voyeurism, bereavement, changing sexuality, pillow humping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:59:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 75,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1730300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Fay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone thinks that they're a couple, but Sherlock's self-sexual and John's straight, so they're never going to fall in love, are they? Even if neither of them can imagine life without the other.</p>
<p>****<br/>Sherlock hadn’t been in the least bit cold, but he felt warm through and through when John snuggled in beside him.  He wondered idly if they could stay like this forever; cuddled up in front of the fire with nothing more complex to solve than the mystery of the box in John’s pocket.  “You said that had a present for me,” he murmured with his lips almost touching John’s earlobe. </p>
<p>“A small present,” cautioned John. He reached into his dressing gown and drew out a flat box wrapped in unadorned royal blue tissue paper.  “Still it’s the thought that counts.”</p>
<p>Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “And what thought was that?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One Empathy

**Author's Note:**

> A unconventional romance with lots of emotion and quite a bit of sex...
> 
> I'll update the tags as I go along.
> 
> Comments always welcome.
> 
> Not beta read so I apologise for any mistakes.
> 
> 28th June 2015 - I've been away from the archive for several months for family/health reasons, so I just wanted to thank everyone for their comments and kudos. I intended to tidy the story up at some point, correct the typos etc, but I'm not able to do that at the moment so once again my apologies for any errors in the text.
> 
> 21st December 2015 - Thank you for all your kudos and comments. I apologise for not replying, but I'm still not back in 'writing mode' so I've decided to orphan this work. I still hope that you enjoy it.

Sherlock Holmes masturbated using his left hand. His right arm was encased in an improvised white sling of John’s devising. He had one knee drawn up and the other leg sprayed wide under the thin guest house duvet. Even if he hadn’t been breathing like a steam engine what he was doing would have been obvious to an idiot and John Watson wasn’t an idiot.

“Painkillers kicking in, are they?” he said drily.

“Endorphins.”

“Purely medicinal then.” John had a vision of happy dolphins gabbling about under a fountain of semen. “God, I must be tired.” He yanked back the duvet on his own single bed and crawled under it. The sheets smelt faintly of bleach and the mattress was lumpy, but it was a bed and he wasn’t complaining. He could have rolled over to face the floral wallpaper. Instead he settled on his side, facing Sherlock.

This wasn’t something that he’d ever want to explain to this therapist, but he’d crossed the Rubicon where this was concerned a long time ago. And burnt his bridges and that was more than enough of the mixed metaphors. He yawned and tried to thump the pillow into some semblance of softness. “I don’t know how you’ve got the energy.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at him across the space between their beds. “It needs some attention and it does help with the shoulder.”

“I said that you should have gone to A&E.”

Sherlock sighed and bent his other leg. “Why should I do that when I’ve got my own personal physician?”

That amused John, just as it had been meant to do. “You’re the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever known.”   His mind flitted back to that chase along the sea wall in the dark. To Sherlock’s ashen face after he fell and the unnatural angle his arm had hung at. He had called an ambulance, but a furious Sherlock had refused to go with the paramedics. They had traipsed back to the guest house where he had given in and repaired the dislocation himself. There was nothing clever about it, nothing to admire about Sherlock’s resolution in the face of excruciating pain. “Stupid git.”

Sherlock grinned. His left hand still moved under the bedcovers.

John frowned, discomforted by the knowledge that this wasn’t normal behaviour – for either of them. The first time had been unsurprisingly at Baker Street. Three weeks after he’d moved in he had returned home one afternoon to discover Sherlock wanking on the sofa. Mega awkward, only Sherlock had been as cool as a cucumber while he worked his way through indignation and embarrassment.   He had wilfully ignored any arousal he felt; he wasn’t into men and if got to him…Well that was just because he hadn’t got laid for a while.

He had rectified that lack the following evening with a pretty waitress. That ought to have been the end of it, but it was only the beginning. On a summer evening a few days later with all the windows flung open and the sky a mosaic of copper and burnt orange Sherlock had slipped his hand into his pyjama bottoms. John had protested. Sherlock had persisted and the pattern had been set.

“Either get yourself off or give up on it for tonight,” said John. “Some of us would like to get some sleep.”

Sherlock turned over and rested his head on his folded left arm. So he was going to leave it just as he so often did, sometimes teasing and edging his poor cock for days before he finally let it come. His eyes were dark with lust, drowning eyes. John swallowed heavily and reached for the bedside lamp. “I’ll turn the light off.”

The darkness was punctured by the street lights outside but it was safer than the lamp, what the eye couldn’t see the heart couldn’t grieve for. John closed his eyes for good measure. He heard the sea and a scraping sound on the roof, something shrieked in the night like a lost soul.

“Herring gull,” whispered Sherlock.

It wasn’t a comment that required an answer, but John opened his eyes again. Sherlock was a shadow shape in the gloom and John was beset by an irrational fear that he was no more substantial than that invisible gull screeching in the darkness. Bloody PTSD. He rolled to the very edge of his bed and extended his hand. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock clasped his outstretched hand. “Go to sleep, John.”

And he did.

*

They weren’t lovers. They neither kissed nor embraced, yet friendship was an inadequate term to describe everything they shared. It wasn’t just the intimacy created by Sherlock’s frankness about an activity that was meant to be totally private. Although that was part of it, uniquely so because Sherlock swore that he had never been this open, this vulnerable, with anyone else and John believed him.    

The rusted railing on the promenade scraped John’s palm and the wind, sharp with salt, shivered through his jacket. Words churned in his head. He set his shoulders, military style, and forced them out. “You ought to find someone – I can’t give you what you need.”

“Oh, but you do.” Sherlock had his coat draped around his shoulders to accommodate the sling John had insisted upon.  He stared the horizon where slate sky met grey ocean. “Even if you do have the absurd idea that discovering the joys of normal sex will cure me of my fetish.”

“It might,” said John defensively. He thought about Sherlock screwing someone and the emotion that churned in his gut wasn’t lust. “I’m trying to do what’s right for you.”

“And for yourself,” replied Sherlock gently. “If I were normal then you would be too.”

“I am. I’m straight.” The truth felt oddly like a lie.

“So is the Leaning Tower of Pisa.” Sherlock leant on the rail facing John. The wind caught his hair and John wanted to push it back off his forehead. “There’s no reason that we can’t continue as we are, you and I, and Mr Cock.”

John went beetroot red. He had referred to Sherlock’s penis in that way once when he had been half drunk and Sherlock had never let him forget it. “Drop it, will you.”

Sherlock pouted. “Not here, dearie.”

“Just stop it.” John glared at him. “Or I’ll dislocate your other shoulder for you.”

Sherlock laughed, but he was still pale with soot smudges of weariness beneath his eyes. “One’s more than enough, thank you.” That was as close to confessing that it hurt as he was going to get,

“Let’s get in out of the cold," said John. "This wind won’t do your arm any good and I’m bloody starving.”

Sherlock acquiesced. They walked along the empty seafront, past shops and amusement arcades either boarded up for the winter or closed down for good. Time had bleached all the joy out of the Kent resort leaving it desolate of the tourists who had once been its life’s blood. It belonged to the old and the poor now. “Christ, this is a dump,” said John.

“Mercer and his counterfeiters will be long gone after last night,” Sherlock admitted with a grimace. “So we might as well feed you at the station and get the next train back to London.”

John didn’t need persuading. Even a station buffet breakfast couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm. Everything else was damp though with a steady drizzle that had started to fall on their trek to the station. Wetness shimmered on Sherlock’s coat and hair, alluring if it were not for the chill in the empty train carriage. They sat opposite one another with a plastic table between them. John had grabbed a couple of coffees at the buffet and he shoved one over to Sherlock. “Here, the caffeine will help a bit, but I can’t give you any more pills yet.”

Sherlock took the cup carefully as the train pulled out. The way he sat with his back and shoulder at a careful angle to the plaid chair indicated how uncomfortable he was. “I’ve a high tolerance for drugs.”

John shook his head. “No, nothing doing.” The next words were out of his mouth before he thought about them. “Try the dolphins.”

“What?”

“Endorphins,” amended John, although he knew that he’d just had the worse idea in history.

Sherlock tilted his head against the seat back. “Here?”

“There’s no one about, but it’s probably not-”

“And no CTTV cameras on these old trains.” Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, then at his watch. “Fourteen minutes to the next station.”

“Oh god,” muttered John. “What about the ticket inspector?”

“Not worth his trouble before then, there are only five passengers on the entire train.” Sherlock sat up and unzipped his trousers with his left hand. There was already a gleam of excitement about him. “It’s years since I wanked on public transport.”

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

“Yes, you do,” said Sherlock. He looked down at his lap. “Hello, Mr Cock.”

John had an urge to bang his head on the carriage window. He had created a monster. Sherlock watched him across the table. He always tried to keep his eyes open for as long as possible, but his lips were parted and his expression of anguished bliss would have given the game away in a second.

“If anyone walks in we’re going to get arrested,” John warned him.

“Why should they arrest you?” gasped Sherlock.

“I’m with you, aren’t I? And I’m not making much attempt to stop you.”   He was also bloody stupid enough to intervene on Sherlock’s behalf if all this did go pear-shaped. Thereby guaranteeing himself a highly embarrassing court appearance. This was crazy. He could even have his fitness to practice called into question and end up losing his medical licence. He groaned. “Bloody great.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock.

John scowled at him. Sherlock knew damn well it hadn’t been a compliment. He tagged his jacket around himself. There was a damp current of air coming through the rubber window seal and the seats were itchy. He shifted position and folded his arms.   For half a minute he managed to keep his gaze fixed on the swaying fields before his eyes were magnetically drawn back to Sherlock.

He was greeted with a triumphant smile. Then Sherlock let his breath out with a shudder. “God, John…”

His voice hit John below the solar plexus and made his response impossible to ignore. They were quite definitely both going to get arrested. John swallowed the echo of bitter coffee and fresh saliva. The table blocked his view of what was going on down below, but he could see Sherlock’s left arm moving and hear the little noises he made.

Thursday. Today was Thursday and Sherlock hadn’t come since Sunday. Getting urgent then, getting desperate for it. John pressed his clenched fist to his mouth and smelt floral guest house soap on his skin. He wanted to know how it smelt on Sherlock, on that fast moving left hand all mingled with sweat and precum.

“Close.” Sherlock’s head rolled on the seat back and his eyes half-closed. “So close...no more…” He moaned and pulled his hand out of his trousers. “Almost – Oh fuck!” He grabbed the edge of the table and ejaculated violently.

 


	2. Part One Empathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock should remember that pride comes before a wager and John has a 'little' problem of his own.

John was tenacious even by his standards and the moment Mrs Hudson wished them good-night and ambled off downstairs he returned to their previous argument.

“Why don’t you just admit that it was an accident?” he demanded again.

“I never have accidents.” He saw John’s sceptical look.  “Well, hardly ever and that was not one of them.”

“Oh, so you meant to get off on the train - that must explain why you tried to stop it at the last second.”

“I changed my mind,” said Sherlock defensively.

“Bollocks.”  John marched over to him so that they stood toe to toe. “You lost it and came all over yourself, and you couldn’t have stopped it if the Archbishop of Canterbury had walked into that carriage.”

All true, not that he was about to say so, but John had been the one left simmering with frustration when they got to the next station. That explained why he was so angry and red-faced now, perhaps he ought to offer to sooth John’s ire.  No, sex with other people was simply too messy and emotional. Sherlock was shocked to find himself considering it even for a moment.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” yelled John.

“No,” snapped Sherlock. He whirled away, all prima-donna with his dressing gown flapping. A giddying excitement gripped him and he marched headlong into the lion’s den. “I’ll prove it to you.”

“How?” demanded John.

Sherlock’s mind worked at lightning speed. He usually held out for fix or six days at a time, but he’d managed to last a fortnight before now. “By not coming for two weeks.”

“Why not make it three?” challenged John.  “Or are you happier with a target that you think you can reach?”

Sherlock shrugged as if the matter were of no importance to him. “Three, four, you can choose."

A slow smile spread across John’s face. “Let’s call it a month then.”

Fuck. He was going to be climbing the walls - when he wasn’t humping them.  Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and crossed his legs at the ankle, playing casual for all it was worth. “All right, a month it is then.”

“Agreed.” John’s expression softened. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Sore,” admitted Sherlock grudgingly.

“Let’s get you sorted out then.”

Sore was an understatement, but he rather liked John going into Florence Nightingale mode. He was provided with a blanket, cushions, tea and alcohol.  It still hurt like the devil though, far too much for Mr Cock and his dolphins to be of any help. Besides he wasn’t in the mood for once. Blame it on the train or on the booze.  Sherlock extended his left hand, carefully so not to dislodge the cushions John had tucked in around him, and picked up his brandy glass.

“I told you it would help,” said John. “In Victorian times they prescribed it for everything.”

“They also prescribed a mixture of chloroform, cannabis and cocaine for the common cold.”

John shook his head. “Sorry, nothing doing, you’ll have to stick with that and the Ibuprofen, unless you want me to call a taxi and take you to Barts?”

It was eleven o’clock at night.  The rain rattled the window frames and they were both dressed for bed.  Hospital was a singularly unappealing thought.  If it hurt stretched out on the sofa with a blanket and the fire blazing then tedious hours in a chilly waiting room wouldn’t do him any good at all. “What can they do that you can’t?”

“Give you stronger pain relief and refer you for the physio that you’re going to need to get that shoulder functioning again.”

The thought of being left with an impairment was even less appealing than going to hospital. However, there was always that private physiotherapist who owed him a considerable favour. As to strong pain relief he could get that with one phone call; a nice soft pillow of morphine to drift off on.

Bad idea, Sherlock, very bad idea. “I’ll stick with Dr Watson’s cure-all for tonight and think about the therapy later.”

“See that you do.”  The concession had placated John.  He picked up the remote control that lay next to his armchair. “Shall we see if there’s anything on the telly to take your mind off it?”

“We could watch some porn on the laptop instead,” suggested Sherlock.

John looked alarmed and his face flushed red. “Haven’t you had enough for one day?”

“More than enough…” Sherlock let the ‘but you haven’t’ hang unspoken.  John had been as horny as hell on that train and he hadn’t had the chance to jerk off since. 

John stared at him like a demented goldfish. Only a goldfish could never have its hair so adorably tousled up.  Sherlock hastily decided that he must have hit his head as well as his arm. He wasn’t interested in other people sexually, besides which John was clearly about to run a mile from his latest suggestion.

“What sort of porn?” mumbled John.

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Pick something off your laptop.” He had been through nearly all of John's tedious porn stash already, most of it on fast forward.

For a moment he thought that John was going to run out of the room. Then he retrieved the laptop from the desk.  “We’ll have to plug it in. I haven’t got any battery left.”

They rearranged themselves on the sofa, sitting upright with a cushion wedged between Sherlock’s right arm and his body.  Surrounded by a mismatch of other cushions of various shapes and colours with a plaid blanket over their laps they were too tense to be completely comfortable.  Their sheepish gazes darted away from one another and John hit the on button.  The laptop sprung to life, all bright colours and logos.  Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the news headlines, but there was nothing to interest him.

“I might just take a quick look at the blog,” muttered John.

“Don’t procrastinate.”

“I’m not.”  

“Good, your password is HamW1056,” said Sherlock.

“Not after tonight it won’t be.” John opened the encrypted folder.  He gave Sherlock a sideways look and selected a video apparently at random. 

It was all very intimate. The heat of the laptop coupled with the warmth of the blanket made Sherlock yawn, but he was far more aware of John’s thigh pressed against his.  Right up close and in his personal space so that their dressing gowns caressed every time one of them moved.  And John wasn’t doing very well at sitting still.  Although to his credit he lasted through two minutes and thirty-nine seconds of a pretty Asian girl giving a fat man a blow job before his hand vanished under the blanket.

He moved again as the video changed to a couple having energetic sex in various positions and the blanket gaped open.  One glance confirmed that John was rubbing himself through his pyjama trousers, either as one last vain attempt at discretion or because he enjoyed the friction.

“Do you like that?” murmured Sherlock.  John’s hair brushed his cheek and he breathed in the scent of it.

John gestured at the laptop. “I’ve seen better, but there’s this bit at the end where she’s got her legs wide open and…Oh, shut up, will you.”   He wriggled, restless with arousal, leaning heavily on Sherlock’s good shoulder.

Sherlock was about to succumb to the temptation to put his arm around him when John jerked forward. His eyes clenched shut and the video ran on unheeded.  Sherlock was far more interested in watching him, so interested that Mr Cock stirred himself and was for once completely ignored.  John’s breath was a loud gasp in the quiet room.  He bent forward, massaging himself rapidly through his crumpled up pyjamas.  “God…”  He seized Sherlock’s hand and thrust it into his crotch with his own clamped over it.

A hard bulge pulsed under Sherlock’s palm and John came.  “It’s all right,” said Sherlock without knowing why he did.  Wetness spurted into the material beneath his hand and he touched his lips, pretend it was an accident fleetingly, to John’s brow.

John fell back on the sofa and released his death-grip on Sherlock’s hand. “Sorry,” he muttered after a few moments with his eyes still closed. “I know that you don’t do other people.”

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock and oddly enough it was. Although with anyone else it would have been far too much of an invasion.  Confused by his own reactions he took refuge in practicality and packed the laptop away.

When he turned around John had sat up.  He flushed and looked away, avoiding Sherlock’s eye. “It’s not always that quick, I just haven’t got laid for a bit.”

Excuses. Excuses. Sherlock said nothing. He didn’t want to muddy the waters any further.

John scrambled to his feet. “I’m going to stick these pyjamas in the washing machine.” He stopped in the kitchen doorway with his back to Sherlock and kicked off his pyjama bottoms.  John tied his navy dressing gown securely around his waist before he turned to face him. “I won’t put the wash on tonight. We don’t want Mrs Hudson up here complaining about the noise.”

“It’s nothing to do with her or with anyone else,” said Sherlock.

“Good.” John grabbed a mug off the worktop. “Do you fancy a coffee?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what he fancied. It had been so amazing to feel an orgasm that wasn’t his own. “Yes, all right.”

They sat at the kitchen table in the early hours of the morning, drinking instant coffee and not talking about anything at all. Despite the residual awkwardness between them they were both reluctant to part. Yet part they eventually did, each to his own solitary bed.

*

There were two lots of blood according to the forensic results and a not a body for either of them; a locked room mystery par excellence and John was chatting up the receptionist. Sherlock claimed him with a snap of his fingers, striding off to look for clues.

He knelt and swept his hand across the dry mud under the factory window. “A male, forty plus, overweight with a knee problem on the left side. See how the footprint’s deeper there?  Married, no, divorced and paying a lot in maintenance, hence the cheap shoes.” Sherlock plucked a hair off the ground. “He’s got a dog, probably a long-haired Jack Russell.”  He jumped to his feet and brushed his coat down. “That’s about it, you can tell Lestrade.”

“Where are you going?” John yelled after him.

Sherlock smirked to himself and slowed his pace imperceptibly to allow John to catch up.  “Just for a walk,” he said airily.

The wasteland around the old factory was an escarpment of abandoned cars, litter and spindly trees which led down to the murky Thames.  Up river over Battersea Bridge the sun threatened to shred the cloud, but the air was still thick with rain.  Sherlock headed for the tumbled down watchman’s hut he had noticed on their way in.  The roof had gone and the window sockets gaped blindly, but the walls still stood firm.

Sherlock toed aside a discarded condom. “Someone obviously found a use for this place.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Dare what?” asked Sherlock all sweet innocence.  They were two days into his month long endurance challenge and he was nowhere near desperate enough to get it out in this smelly shack. Still it was wonderful fun to make John think that he might, and to see that blend of irritation and hope in his eyes.

“You know bloody well what,” declared John.

“Oh, that! It’s hardly appropriate when we’ve got two murders to solve.”  Sherlock leant in close to John. “If you want me to wank in this dump you’re going to have to ask me very nicely.”

“Fuck off,” said John. He knew that he’d been royalty had and he swung round.  Then he looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock. “When you’re absolutely dying to get off I’m going to bring you back here and we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  Now there was an intriguing notion.

 


	3. Part One Empathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter focuses on angst and emotion rather than sex. However the duck pirate will be back! (A real sex toy by the way, not a product of my overactive imagination).

“Oh, that’s so cute,” squealed the girl clinging to John’s arm.

That wasn’t precisely the word he would have used to describe a yellow rubber duck viberator in a pirate costume. Still Mycroft had once told him that Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate when he was a kid.

“Why don’t we buy it?” Janice nudged him in the ribs. “I’ve got some nice bubble bath at home.”

“It’s not really my style,” said John. He quickly steered her towards a display of glow in the dark condoms instead.

When he went back the next day to get the duck there was only a space on the display where it had been. John slunk out of the sex shop. There was no way he was going to embarrass himself by asking the sales assistant to order one for him. Well, for Mr Cock actually and John wasn’t sure when he’d started buying Sherlock’s penis presents. All right, so it had started with the baby oil, but enough was enough. Sherlock would have found it laughable anyhow, at least until that vibration shuddered through his cock.

Six days and John had to admit that Sherlock was doing well. He was a once a day in the shower man himself, but there was still over three weeks to go. Maybe he should have ordered that duck after all or perhaps he could get one online, delivered to the door in a discreet brown package.

The look on Sherlock’s face drove all thoughts of sex toys out of John’s head the second he walked into their flat. “What’s wrong? Is it your shoulder?” Sherlock had removed the sling against his advice the day before, but every instinct told John that this pain wasn’t physical.

“Nothing. It happens.”

“What does?”

“People die. Especially old people, very old people.” Sherlock stared at the junk on the coffee table. “She was a hundred and two, and, as Mycroft said, it was only to be expected. Do you know how few people live to that age?” He looked around wildly. “I’ve got some stats on it somewhere.”

“Stop it, Sherlock.” John clasped his upper arms. The muscles were knotted with tension. “Now who died?”

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively in his throat. “Grandmamma.”

“I didn’t even know that you had one.” Nor had he ever imagined that Sherlock would be so distressed by her demise. “Were you very close?”

“Once.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “I could talk to her, tell her anything, things my parents didn’t understand. Then…I was seventeen and we…dislocated, more than an argument, a rift that couldn’t ever be…ever be…” He pulled away from John. “Don’t expect anything earth shattering. She wanted me to go to our grandfather’s old college at Cambridge just as mummy and Mycroft had done. I refused and she never forgave me.”

John’s opinion of the woman sunk towards the floor. “That was a bit bloody harsh.”

“Family tradition.” Sherlock put his elbows on the mantelpiece and lowered his head into his hands. “We were like strangers forever afterwards, polite, distant, talking about the weather.” He whirled around and snatched a letter off the desk. “Read that, Mycroft brought it.”

The thin spidery handwriting on the envelope was a relic of another age as was the thick cream paper. John felt like a trespasser, but Sherlock had told him to read it so he drew the letter out of the envelope. It had been written several months before, a brief missive that didn’t even cover one side of the paper.

“Aloud,” commanded Sherlock.

John cleared his throat. “My dearest Sherlock, I have always loved you and I forgave your disloyalty long ago. God bless you, my darling boy. Grandmamma.” He wanted to crumple the letter in his hand. “She should have told you that when she was alive.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rub salt in the wound.”

“Oh, she did that all by herself.” Sherlock snatched the letter out of John’s hand and crushed it in his fist. He hurled it into the empty fireplace. “I am the main beneficiary, John. She left me her house in Hambledon and the bulk of her fortune. Twisting the knife in my gut from beyond the grave.”

“Maybe she was trying to make amends,” suggested John. Not that he really believed it. If the inheritance had been intended to guilt trip Sherlock it was definitely working. “And even if she wasn’t it’s an empty, petty gesture. When all’s said and done she isn’t here to watch you squirm.”

Sherlock blinked and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. “Is that what I’m doing, John?” He sounded weary, almost childlike.

“Sort of.” John clasped Sherlock’s biceps. The muscles were taut and trembling. “You’re shocked and upset. It’s never easy to lose someone you loved, no matter how badly they let you down.”

“She let me down?” That seemed to be an alien concept to Sherlock.

“Of course she did, you were seventeen years old – just a kid for Christ’s sake – and you decided that you didn’t want the future your grandmother had all mapped out for you. There’s no harm in that, none at all.” John gave Sherlock a shake. “Imagine that it had happened to someone else – to me – what would you think? What would you say to them?”

“I’d tell them to listen to John Watson.” Sherlock’s face crumpled.

“Oh fuck.” John gulped. He could deal with weeping girlfriends and anguished patients, but this was Sherlock and it was almost unbearable to see him break like this. “It’s okay.”   Suddenly he was holding him tightly, fiercely, and Sherlock bowed his head, hiding his tears in the curve of John’s neck. His lips ghosted over Sherlock’s hair. “Shush, maybe she did love you and simply couldn’t -”  

“Don’t patronise…party…” Sherlock raised his head. He struggled to stem his crying and drew in a couple of ragged breaths before he spoke again. “There was a celebration for her centenary, everyone went, Mycroft was invited, but not me. Never me.”

“I’m sorry,” said John helplessly.

Sherlock plastered a grin onto his ashen face. “I had you fooled, didn’t I? You thought that I was really upset.”

John would have been livid if he had believed him, but he knew his Sherlock better than that. “Yeah, I suppose you did,” he said gently.

“Thanks,” whispered Sherlock without meeting his gaze.

“Let me know if you need anything,” said John.

The request didn’t come until mid-morning on the next day. “Two railway tickets to Whitley in Surrey,” said Sherlock.

John let his newspaper drop into his lap. “What?”

“You told me to let you know if I needed anything and I need two train tickets to Whitley or don’t you want to see my inheritance?”

Sherlock stood by the window with the light behind him making an impressionist painting of his features, but John heard that underlying note of appeal in his voice. He mentally cancelled his afternoon date with Janice. “Why not? I haven’t got anything else on today.”

*

Fifty-five minutes from Waterloo and it was like stepping into another world. Into a genteel country where life went on as it had always done, at a slow, insular pace which meant that it took them half an hour to get a taxi at the neat little station. Everyone had cars and the locals got priority on the few taxis there were. Sherlock nearly paced a furrow in the concrete while they waited and he threatened to get the next train back to London more than once.

“That’s only an excuse,” said John. “We can always walk it you know.”

“If I’d have wanted to stroll down memory lane I wouldn’t have rang for a taxi and it isn’t an excuse. I’ve still got a double-murder to solve.”

“Wait until the corpses turn up.” John tried to get comfortable on the station bench. It might look rustic with its decoration of acorns and squirrels, but it was hard on the bum. Another thought struck him. “When’s the funeral?”

“They haven’t even found the bodies yet, you fool.”

God give me patience. Now! “Your grandmother’s funeral, Sherlock.”

Sherlock froze in mid-pace. “Ask Mycroft, he’s the executor. I’m not going.”

“It might help provide some sort of closure for you.”

“I don’t want closure. I want a fucking taxi!”

The profanity confirmed just how stressed Sherlock was and John was highly relieved when the taxi finally arrived a couple of minutes later. “His grandmother just died,” he mouthed at the driver when Sherlock’s rudeness threatened to lose them their ride and he placated the man with an extra-generous tip when they got to the house.

“How come you’re the one with the huge inheritance and I’m the one forking out for taxi fare?” asked John when they stood by the front gate. “And the train tickets went on my credit card.”

Sherlock smiled faintly. “You’ll get your reward in heaven or so she used to tell me.”

“I don’t believe in heaven.”

“Neither did she.”

The house was elegantly middle-class and yet very ordinary. There were none of the darkly gothic touches John had imagined and he would never have guested that it had belonged to such an old woman from the bright, modern décor. Heat had stifled the huge oak and marble kitchen, and John was grateful when Sherlock threw open the stable door. He followed him out into a garden that swept down to the fields that reached the blue horizon.

Sherlock stood with his back to the mellow brick to light a cigarette. “Don’t complain, it isn’t cannabis.”

“Tobacco’s nearly as bad for you,” said John without censure. That was one thing he’d learnt in the war, that sometimes all that mattered was surviving the pain. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock. Then he reached down and took his hand. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” whispered Sherlock.

“What are you going to do with this place?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock shook himself out of his malaise. “Mycroft tells me that it’s just possible to pay the death duties from the investments she left without selling the house. He suggests that we rent it out until I decide its long term future.”

“That might not be such a bad idea.” John looked at the lilac trees at the bottom of the garden. His mum had always insisted that lilac was unlucky. A tiny shiver whispered along his nerves. “It’s a lovely house,” he said without conviction. Then his medical curiosity kicked in. “How on earth did she manage in a place this size at her age?”

“Live in carer, cook, cleaner and gardener.” Sherlock turned his head to look at John. “I’m not meant to know that Mycroft paid for some of it. Not because he was after this expensive pile of bricks and mortar, but because he always wanted to be her favourite and he never was, not after I came along. Don’t you think that’s sad?” Sherlock wasn’t mocking his brother. It was a serious question.

John nodded. “It’s hard to ache for something, someone, that you can never have.” He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers. “Life doesn’t always fit together the way we want it to.”

“What if it’s possible to make it fit?” whispered Sherlock.

John stared back at him. “It’s always worth giving it a go.”

The moment dissolved gently and they wandered by mutual consent back into the oak beamed lounge. John sat on the burgundy sofa next to the stone fireplace while Sherlock moved slowly around the room, picking up objects at random and discarding them again. Some framed photographs on the windowsill caught John's attention and he got up to investigate. There was a sepia photo of an elderly couple in Victorian dress and a black and white one of a young girl that had a nineteen-forties look about it. Another was of a fairish boy of about seven gazing adoringly at the tiny baby in his arms. If John had ever needed any proof that Mycroft loved his brother then this was it.

“Let’s go,” announced Sherlock. “We can walk back to the station.”

“Okay, if you’re sure you’re ready to leave.” Running away wouldn’t help, but neither would staying when Sherlock was clearly eager to be gone. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Sherlock pulled his face. “Almost fine. Not quite fine. Sorry to drag you all this way for nothing.”

“It’s not a problem.” John shelved all the questions he had about the people in the photographs. Now obviously wasn’t the time. Nor did he ask Sherlock’s permission to slip one of them into his jacket pocket. It was of a teenage, lanky, Sherlock, standing under those unlucky lilac trees.

 


	4. Part One Empathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the seaside and the return of the duck pirate...

They ended up in Hastings of all places because Sherlock said “Let’s get on the first train that comes.”

The new town was shabby and down at heel, but the old town was charming with mellow stonework and pastel colours buildings reflected in the water. There were worse places for an importune seaside trip, but John was concerned about Sherlock's refusal to go home and face their real lives. However he seemed much less volatile now and John prayed that the cheerful holiday atmosphere would lift his spirits.

Sherlock wasn’t in a talkative mood though, so they sat in silence on the seafront until the onset of evening prompted John to take charge of the practicalities. He parked Sherlock on a bench and went to buy them both a new shirt and a change of underwear. John also stopped off at Boots the chemist for an electric razor and a couple of toothbrushes. Thus equipped they rented a room at a cosy hotel overlooking the harbour. One twin room when they could easily have got two singles. It hadn’t even been discussed beforehand; they simply wanted to be together.

John had made one more purchase while Sherlock mused on his bench. The instant he had seen the blacked out windows of the Adult Shop he had known it would be there. Fate in the shape of a plastic duck, which was probably one of the silliest things he’d ever done. It was hardly the most appropriate time for sex toys and he doubted that Sherlock was in the mood, but in for a penny and in for a pound.

He waited until Sherlock announced that he was going to have a bath. “Wait a minute, I’ve got something for you.” John fished the box out of the laminated bedside cabinet and held it out to him.

Sherlock turned the box around, inspecting every tiny detail. “I wondered what you were buying in that sex shop. The package you were attempting to hide was too small for a dildo and far too large for condoms, unless of course there’s something about you I don’t know.”

“No, it’s all perfectly ordinary.” John tried not to blush. “Stop being a smartarse and open your present.”

The box lid flipped back to reveal a bright yellow plastic duck in a painted on pirate’s outfit complete with eye patch. Sherlock’s own eyebrows went up. “I haven’t got a duck fetish, John.”

“Mycroft once told me you liked pirates…wanted to be a pirate.” John grabbed the duck and turned it over. “The head and tail vibrate, okay? I even remembered to buy batteries. You can use it in the bath.” He paused for breath. “I thought it might help take your mind off things.”

“It will.” Sherlock reclaimed the duck from John. “Thank you.”

“Forget all that not coming for a month crap. Get yourself off with it and it should help you sleep.”

Sherlock laughed softly. “Do you prescribe these for all your patients?”

“Only for you.”

It was one of those moments again, as deep and eternal as the sea outside their window. Sherlock touched John’s hand and turned towards the on suite bathroom.

John slumped down on the bed. His emotions were sun scraped and raw. This was too much, too dangerous, but he could no more control it than master the relentless movement of the tides. He lay back with his forearm over his eyes to seal out the evening sun. The bed was reasonably comfortable and the room was spotlessly clean if functional. He would get up and draw the bamboo blinds in a minute. John yawned. Sherlock had left the bathroom door wide open. He heard the toilet flush and then the pipes knocked as water poured from the bath taps.

He put his knuckles to his lips and yawned again. The water stopped and a faint splash reached his ears. John stained them for the hum of the vibrator and finally caught it like the buzz of a distant bee. Now he listened for Sherlock, for a giveaway sigh or gasp, what he heard was a thump and some swear words. John lifted his head from the pillow. “Are you okay in there?”

“I could use a hand.”

“Well, you’re not having one of mine.” He was already off the bed and halfway to the bathroom. “I told you that shoulder wasn’t fully healed,” was his immediate reaction to what he saw.

Sherlock’s head was tilted back against the fawn tiles and the grimace on his face was of pain rather than pleasure. His right hand clutched the side of the bath and the duck hummed unheeded down near the taps. “It was all right before I pulled it trying to wank.”

His baleful tone and the absurdity of it made John snigger. He padded over to the utilitarian white bath. “The idea was to let the duck do the work.”

Sherlock shook the water out of his eyes and glared up at him. “You try it. With everything bobbing about in the water you’ll need one hand to hold your cock and another to keep the viberator in place.”

That might well be true. John saw how Sherlock’s cock moved with the drift of the bathwater. He frowned. The obvious answer was for Sherlock to dry off and do it in bed where one duck hand would be sufficient. Only it was meant to be bath time fun… John sat down on the curved edge of the bath. The plastic was warm and damp. Stream dripped from the walls and misted the mirror opposite. He was glad about that, watching himself do this would have made it all too real. “If you take care of your cock – with your left hand – I’ll handle the duck end of things.”

Sherlock considered his abrupt offer for a second. Then he slid down in the water a little and canted his hips up almost daring John to follow through.

“And if you ever tell anyone about this I’ll murder you,” added John for good measure. He soaked his shirt sleeve retrieving the escaped duck. “I’ve got a wet arm now,” he complained but Sherlock’s chuckle was music to his ears.

It wasn’t sex. Sex was fucking, screwing. It was what he did with a woman. Being perched awkwardly on the rim of a hotel bath so that he could hold a vibrating duck pirate to the underside of his best friend’s erection wasn’t sex.   It was just lending a helping hand. He was even being extra careful not to actually touch Sherlock’s cock which wasn’t easy since the vibration and the water kept it mobile.

Sherlock had his head back again. His hair was black with moisture and dewy beads of water ran down his face. John sweated in his thin, wet shirt. “It’s like a bloody sauna in here.”

“Mm…Oh…Ohh…” Mr Cock nudged against John’s hand.

John swallowed. “Getting close?” He was surprised that Sherlock hadn’t already come given the days of abstinence which had proceeded this evening.

“Mmm…” Sherlock pushed his hips up and sent a splash of water all over John’s lap.

“Put a bit more effort in then.” Sherlock’s turgid cock had been leaking clear fluid into the water for some time although he was barely wanking at all.

“I’m trying not to.” Sherlock’s head lolled on the wall and he made thrusting motions with his hips. “I want you to…with the duck…Oh god, get me off.”

A moment before John would have been able to deny how excited he was, but that throaty demand was hot wired to his cock. He bit the inside of his cheek; a tiny speck of blood on his tongue and a terrible ache in his groin. If he didn’t finish this soon it was going to descend into a raw chaos neither of them was ready to face.

“All right, just a little more.” He ran the viberator up and down Sherlock’s quivering cock and pressed it firmly up against his frenulum, over his cockhead and back again.

John saw the tiny slit twitch and he held his breath…waiting…

Sherlock groaned. “Oh John…”

Blessed relief spurted into the water and into John’s jeans.

He hadn’t intended to come and confused embarrassment swamped him. For a second he clung to the faint hope that Sherlock hadn’t noticed then he felt a hand grip his thigh. John opened his eyes and found himself smiling foolishly.

“Turn it off,” said Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re wasting the battery.”

They laughed together. Somehow they had survived the vibrating duck pirate.

*

The emotional integrity of their relationship was what mattered and John was thankful that his unexpected loss of control hadn’t made things difficult between them. He turned over in bed. The duck pirate sat proudly on Sherlock’s bedside table and John could just see his dark head peeping out from under the duvet. This man meant the world to him and there was no need to dwell on what that admission meant. There was no way they were ever going to get things right if they analysed everything all the time.

So he wasn’t going to ponder why he’d come in his pants when he hadn’t done that with a woman for years. Not since he’d got over the first excited flush of youth. If anything he had always prided himself on his staying power, no short fuse for John Watson, just ask any of his girlfriends.

Oh shit! He was forgotten to text Janice to cancel their date and she was going to be as mad as hell at him for standing her up.   John thumped the pillow into shape and started to formulate the excuses in his head. Sherlock’s dead grandmother should carry the day, a friend in need and all that. Only Janice was always icky around any mention of Sherlock, a lot of his girlfriends were to be honest. They didn’t like the idea that he always came first. John muffled his giggle in the pillow. Bad pun or what. Christ, Sherlock had looked like a demented angel in that split second before orgasm finally hit. It was no wonder he got turned on by all that sex reeking in the air. What was the line from that old Rolling Stones song? You could make a dead man come.

He rolled over onto his back. It was a bit off beam for a straight man though. An unwelcome memory forced itself into his consciousness. A couple of the squaddies had been caught watching gay porn and their commander had been derisory and disgusted.   Straight as a dye he hadn’t been remotely turned on by the parade of explicit images. Sherlock’s antics would have revolted him.    

And he would have punched the commander in the mouth for daring to demean his friend.

Maybe it was that simple, maybe he was on Sherlock’s side, always and forever, even if the gorgeous sod couldn’t hold a candle to a decent pair of tits and an open vagina. Reassured by that assertion John settled down and went to sleep.

 


	5. Part One Empathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some grief and a few awkward moments, but life goes on.

Funeral day. Not that he was going. Whatever good-byes he had needed to say had been said when he’d gone down to Hambleton with John. He would leave the eulogy to Mycroft, who was so much better suited for it.

The rain was ceaseless and his right shoulder ached. Perhaps it always would on days of storm and sorrow.

Sherlock vowed to turn his thoughts to pleasanter things. The pirate duck lurked at the bottom of his chest of drawers; a bath to sooth his shoulder and another ache might be the order of the day. It had been difficult to resist its insistence buzz for as long as he had down in Hastings. Yet his memory was dominated by that moment when his cock had nudged against John’s hand.  Sherlock frowned. He didn’t mind casual contact with people, a quick hug or a pat on the back were acceptable, but he always avoided anything more intimate like the plague. So why were those two seconds locked into his memory? Why did he muse on how it would feel to have John touch his cock properly?

There was no immediate likelihood of that. Hastings had been over a week ago and things had been stained between them ever since John had helped him to get off.

Sherlock had hidden himself in his work and John had been out a lot with Janette? Janice? Julie? He always refused to remember John’s girlfriends’ names on principle. The principle being that they were a boring inconvenience.

Her name had been Alexandra. She had been named after a queen.

Memories enshrouded him and grief gnawed at his soul. Mourning was futile. There was no heaven, no hell, bodies were simply rubbish to be burnt. Not her though, not queen grandmamma, she would have an oak coffin and a marble headstone beneath which to rot.

He shivered and ached for John.

He got Lestrade and two corpses in a warehouse down at Tilbury. The bodies stank of decomposition and Sally Donovan sniggered when he threw up in the gutter.

“Can’t you see that he’s not well?” Lestrade barked at her. He took Sherlock’s arm. “You’re a white as a bloody sheet. Do you need a doctor?”

Yes, he needed John. Sherlock wrapped his coat and his dignity around him, and insisted that he was fine.

*

They were both trying to find a way back, a breakthrough into the easy intimacy they had previously shared. John hesitated around it. Sherlock could see him desperately searching for the key to the conversation.   Noodles, egg fried rice and a can of Carlsberg later he was still making small talk about the telly and the weather.

It seemed that he was going to have to make the first move. “You didn’t come home last night.”

“I stayed over at Janice’s.” John smirked at Sherlock over the top of his lager can. “I got laid.” There was a minuscule pause. “You wouldn’t believe what that girl can do with her mouth.”

Sherlock didn’t want to know. He was more interested in the hollow note to John’s boasting and the way he avoided eye contact. His silence left a void that John would be driven to fill if he were patient enough. One, two, three, four –

“When did you last get off?” demanded John with his gaze riveted to his beer can.

“Last night, I employed your ducky pirate friend.” It would not do to let John think that he was indispensable.

“Oh, right, good.” John sounded disappointed. He drained the dregs of his lager. “I knew that you’d never be on for that month thing.”

It was like taking sweets from a child and Sherlock disregarded the internal voice that warned him he would regret this. “That is an assumption for which you have no evidence. I’m perfectly capable of lasting a month.”

John’s gaze locked with his. “Prove it,” he whispered.

Sherlock found him enchanting like that, with a challenge in his wide eyes and a yearning in his voice; all cuddly jumper and muted passion. For one insane moment he would have agreed to anything John asked of him. “Oh, I will. Shall we say that the game is on?”

“Yeah, lets.” John shook the can, clearly hoping for the courage of more alcohol. “Look, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but to make it absolutely fair it might be better if you did your wanking - most of your wanking - when I’m around.”

The stipulation was neither entirely unexpected nor unwelcome. “Very well, I will only perform under medical supervision, assuming that my medical supervision doesn’t die of embarrassment.”

“Belt up,” said John. He glanced at his watch. “It’s late and we’re both knackered, you’re looking fairly pasty actually, so let’s make tomorrow day one, which means you’ve got to hold out until the 28th June.”

“Agreed.” He was too tired to begin there and then, but a little devil drove him to frame his next question. “So when I wake up with my usual morning wood am I to bring it, untouched by human hands, to your attention?”

“Oh Christ,” muttered John. Then he met Sherlock’s eyes. “Yeah, you had better had, but don’t go waving it at me at the crack of dawn, some of us value our sleep.”

*

Sherlock was tormented by dream demons; nightmares of being buried alive under Dartmoor’s cold earth. Grandmamma Alexandra slapped his face when he screamed. Why was she in the coffin with him? And what was that thing snorting and snarling as it clawed its way down to crunch his bones? He needed a pee, but Grandmamma would be furious if he wet the coffin.

“You’re not French,” he told her, “you made that up.”

She drew her lips back, becoming the monster with vicious teeth and cruel tongue, and he woke up shaking and tearful.

Neither his whimpers nor his hasty dash to the loo woke John. Sherlock made tea and let it go cold. He stood next to the icy window for a time, observing the empty street before he crawled back to bed. Sleep eluded him. Sherlock tossed and turned before he decided that there was no point in lying awake for endless hours. He would get up again in a minute and do some work on his laptop.

*

The determined rap-tap at his bedroom door woke him. “Sherlock, are you alive in there?”

It was bright daylight. He groaned and buried his face in the pillow’s soft comfort.

“Sherlock?”

“Either come in or drop dead.” He fought his way out of a tangle of sheets and duvet.

John chose the first option. He stood next to Sherlock’s bed looking suspiciously at the disarranged covers. “What the hell have you been up to?”

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Nightmare.”

John’s manner changed instantly. He knew all about night terrors. “Your grandmother?”

Sherlock nodded without opening his eyes. He felt the bed dip as John sat down on it and a firm hand encircled his wrist, massaging the pulse point gently. “You might feel better once the funeral’s over and done with,” said John.

“It was yesterday.” Sherlock sat up. “I know I should have told you, but. I thought…”

“That if you ignored it then it would all go away?”

“Something like that.” For once in his life Sherlock didn’t want to dissemble. John could have him as he was, warts and all. “I saw those corpses down at Tilbury and brought my guts up. Donovan had a field day.”

“Bitch,” said John darkly.

“Then there was the other one, in my nightmare. I was trapped in the coffin with her, so terrified I was damn near wetting myself.”

John laid his hand on his bowed shoulder. “Believe me, I’ve had a few of those. I bet it took you forever to get back to sleep afterwards.”

Sherlock slumped back on his pillows. “It was almost dawn.”

“Do you want to go back to sleep now?” asked John.

His concerned expression melted away the last of Sherlock’s fears. “No, but I’d say yes to a cup of coffee.”

“I don’t remember offering you one. Okay, just this once.”

John was as good as his word, just as he always was. It was real coffee too, strong and dark with a rich aroma, not that old jar of instant stuff they kept at the back of the cupboard. They drank it in tranquil silence with John seated at the end of the bed. He had purloined a pillow to set behind his back and his feet were bare. Sherlock turned his gaze from him to watch the dust motes that floated in the sunlight. May 28th, the first day of the rest of your life. Day one.

Mr Cock had woken when he did and then nestled quietly down. Now his penis stirred again. Sherlock pushed the duvet aside and let his hand rest loosely over his pyjama covered groin. The crumpled material was sweat damp from his haunted dreams, but the flesh beneath lengthened. He traced the crescent of it with his fingertips and it felt good. The lazy motion was akin to dipping his fingers idly into a quiet pool, but the waters warmed rapidly.

“Take your pyjamas off,” said John quietly and he obeyed.

The air was tinged with coolness, a balm to his heated skin. His hand encompassed his cock and he began. Sherlock kept his eyes wilfully open and trained on John, whose own gaze flicked back and forth between his face and his groin. John didn’t have an erection which meant that he’d already wanked off this morning, but he could still command his avid attention. Even when a van door slammed in the street outside and a furious Greek argument pierced the peace John only blinked and muttered. “Shut up.” Whatever was going on in the rest of the world was of no importance to them.  

Up and down, round and round, time passed and the sensations heightened. Sherlock’s eyes closed. He forced them open again and pulled harder on his needy cock. “Oh, that’s good, so good, John.”

“I thought that you were enjoying it,” chuckled John He half lifted his hand and then let it drop back to his thigh. “Is there anything that you want?”

His throat was dry despite the coffee and so was his cock. “Some water and the baby oil.”

He stopped and rested on the smooth cotton of his pillows while John fetched them. They traded the water glass between them until it was empty. Then he trickled runny oil all over his palm and began again. Absence had made the cock grow impatient and the feelings were magnified by the easy slide of the oil. Sherlock gasped and his hand moved faster. “So good…”

“Don’t get too carried away,” John cautioned him.

“I won’t, just a little more.” This had suddenly become risky as well as enjoyable, but he would push his limits and let his lust climb towards the peak before he stopped. “Oh…” It was insidious, threatening to carry him away without warning. Sherlock sniggered. “Mr Cock wants to come.”

“Mr Cock isn’t allowed to do that.”

The note of command in John’s tone aroused Sherlock further and he dared to pump himself harder. “Oh god…” He released his cock and clenched his hand in the sheets. “Please…”

John wiped his hair out of his eyes. “Do you still think that you can last a month?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock defiantly. “How long…”

“About seven inches.” John laughed. “Just over forty minutes, including the break in the middle.”

“That’s only the appetizer,” said Sherlock smugly. He stretched, sinking down into the mattress.

John stared at him and Sherlock realised that there was something amiss. His dear friend seemed confused, anxious and uncertain. Sherlock took John’s hand. “What’s wrong?” he asked him.

“Nothing. Forget it. It’s not my scene and it’s certainly not yours.”

Sherlock dragged his weary head up off the pillow. “What isn’t?”

John bit his lower lip and pointed at Sherlock’s semi-erect penis. “I want to…to touch you.”

“I don’t-” He bit back the instant refusal, but he had never let anyone touch him there. It was too personal, too suffocating; no one else knew how to handle Mr Cock as he did. Yet it was John who had given his penis that foolish nickname. John whom he trusted enough to share this most intimate aspect of his life with and John against whose hand his cock had brushed in the bath. “If you’re careful…I’m still very aroused... and if you promise to stop when I tell you to.”

“I promise,” said John.

*

Sherlock knelt up on the bed. Mr Cock had gone shy and soft, hiding his head under his foreskin.

John knelt opposite him so that they were knee to knee. “I’ll stop whenever you want me too,” he reaffirmed. “Try to relax and enjoy.”

“All right.”   Sherlock braced himself for the moment when John took his cock in his fist and began to manipulate him. Instead John ran the back of his index finger down the middle of his shaft. It was far from unpleasant and Sherlock sighed when John repeated the caress.

“You’re starting to stiffen,” whispered John.

To Sherlock’s surprise his cock had stretched out, seeking the touch of John’s finger. “It’s – I like it.”

“That’s good.” John sounded relieved as well as pleased. “Not that I’ve got a bloody clue what I’m doing.”

They laughed together and Sherlock felt his nerves fade. He could trust John and this was nice, safe. Every touch of John’s finger sent a warm ripple of desire through him. When he was fully erect John shifted position slightly. “Can I hold you, Sherlock?”

“Not too tight.” He was suddenly anxious again as well as excited.

“Like this?” John moved his hand so that Sherlock’s erection lay on his cupped palm. “It can’t be too bad for you because you’re beginning to leak. I’m going to have a sticky hand in a minute.”

“It’s lovely…Ah…” Sherlock was astonished by the strength of his own arousal. There was a thick, congested ache in his balls. Then John started to rub the root of his cock with his thumb. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Can I give you a little wank?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, not yet.” It was all too much. He was going to come, or explode, or cry. “Let go.”

John did so immediately, although Sherlock saw how disappointed he looked. He clutched John’s forearm. “I wouldn’t ever let anyone else to do that.”   Then, compelled by a sudden impulse, he put his arms around John and drew him into a close embrace.

 


	6. Part One Empathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has to decide what his priorities are and Sherlock has a request.
> 
> WARNING: In case anyone hasn’t seen it yet the end of this chapter contains a fairly large spoiler for Sherlock series three.

John had expected it to be difficult, for him as well as for Sherlock, clumsy at the time and awkward afterwards, so he worried because it had all been so easy. Not that he had anything to worry about.

Janice was asleep beside him and he had certainly proved his masculinity last night. Twice at his age was bloody good going. She was getting too cosy though. He preferred to keep things causal, just fun and sex, but Janice had started to talk about ‘us’ a lot and make plans that stretched into the future. Last night hadn’t been the time to admit that he didn’t want to go on holiday with her. She would have been upset if he’d told her that he couldn’t leave Sherlock for two weeks or more honestly that he didn’t want to. So he’d beg off a bit with Janice, plead non-existent work or a case, and try to keep more distance between them. While keeping her sweet for when he needed a handy cunt? John winced, not pleasant, but true. He only wanted her for sex because he could get everything else he needed from Sherlock. Janice was a nice girl though and that was a lousy way to treat anyone. Maybe it would be kinder to break up with her and stick to one night stands.

He could even pay for it if he got desperate. That was if his bank balance would stand it. It was okay at the moment because he had just had his army pension paid in. That would soon go though, rent, bills, the odd present for Mr Cock - some odder than others - and it would be fantastic if he and Sherlock could do something together.

A treat, an outing of some sort to make Sherlock smile. He was still grieving even if he pretended that he wasn’t. What could they do? Sherlock’s hobbies were wanking, occasional drug misuse which John was not going to encourage, and playing the violin. The last one gave John an idea, all he had to do was get away from Janice and onto his smartphone.

*

It didn’t take long for him to find what he wanted. Eighteenth century classics at the Royal Albert Hall, choir, orchestra, Mozart, Vivaldi and Handel, best of all the ticket prices weren’t too horrendous and it was in two days’ time. John was well pleased with himself.

“And I thought we could go for a meal beforehand and maybe a drink afterwards, push the boat out and make a night of it.” John finally ran out of words. Sherlock looked at him as if he were a rather peculiar microscope specimen. “I thought you’d like it,” he added feebly.

“Oh, I do.” Sherlock picked the tickets up off the coffee table. “Is…is this a date?”

“I hadn’t thought of it quite like that – not if you don’t want it to be.”

“I’ve never been on a date.”

“It won’t be much different to all the other times we’ve been out somewhere together.” Like hell it wouldn’t, a date with Sherlock? Jesus Christ! Yes, he supposed it came across like that and he wasn’t going to burst Sherlock’s bubble by reminding him that he was straight. He had wanted to see him smile and now he was, just for him.

Sherlock grinned. “Where are you taking me for dinner?”

“Anywhere but Angelo’s - or the Ritz, my bank account won’t stand that.”

*

Sherlock chose a neat, middle-priced bistro, all minimalist cream and fawn décor, and they ended up having supper after the concert rather than dinner before it. He was on a high, intoxicated by the music, laughing and joking with the waiters, almost making a nuisance of himself.

“Calm down,” said John happily. He was delighted that everything had gone so well. It was even par for the course that the restaurant staff assumed they were a couple. That concert had been very couplely as well, almost romantic with the eighteenth century costumes and candlelit style setting. And he hadn’t pulled away when Sherlock had clasped his hand during an exhilarating overture.

Sherlock gave him a beaming smile. “I’ve been on a date.”

God, he was enchanting like this. John could have kissed him. He took a hasty gulp of his wine instead. Things were getting out of hand. It wasn’t Janice he needed to put the brakes on with, it was Sherlock. “Well, sort of,” he muttered. He tapped the menu. “You had better decide what you want.”

Sherlock selected the fish parmentier and he chose the pan fried pork, only the kitchen mucked up on the orders and sent seafood linguine out instead.

“Bloody fools,” declared John while they waited for the right dish to arrive. He had wanted this evening to be perfect.

“They’re fools. You’re a fool. I’m a fool.” Sherlock spun the salt cellar from one hand to the other. “You must think that I’m a fool.”

“Frequently. Any particular reason?”

“The other morning, all that fuss I made…” The salt cellar toppled over and Sherlock quickly righted it. “When you…touched me, it was hardly a normal reaction.”

“Since when have you ever worried about being normal?” asked John. He hadn’t realised that Sherlock had been fretting over the incident. “If anyone should be worried it’s me, I asked if I could touch you and I enjoyed doing it, and I’m not into men.”

“I’m not into people.” Sherlock smiled shyly. “But I make an exception for you. It was nice.”

“Happy to oblige,” quipped John. It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to oblige again, anytime Sherlock wanted, when the very apologetic waiter returned with their food.

The rest of the meal passed without incident, just another bottle of wine, desert and a few flamboyant deductions from Sherlock. To John’s surprise he insisted on paying half the restaurant bill. “Going Dutch, isn’t that the phrase?” Sherlock turned his collar up against the chill night air. “Let’s go for a walk.”

John fell into step beside him. It had rained while they were in the Albert Hall and puddles filled the hollows in the pavement. A bus sailed past and sent up a wide arc of spray which they narrowly avoided. Cloud hang heavy in the sky and the streets were as quiet as they ever were in central London. He didn’t bother to ask where they were going, not even after the bistro and the open expanse of Hyde Park were left far behind.

Eventually they came to the dark, restless width of the Thames and John followed Sherlock down onto the Embankment. At this hour of the night some of the shadowy benches were occupied by the homeless and others by young couples engaged in activities that could have got them arrested.

Sherlock sat on an empty bench beneath a bronze statue of the Duke of Wellington. John took a seat beside him and tried to ignore what was going on twenty yards away. Although the sound of a zipper being yanked down went straight to his cock. He ought to have looked away, not watched the man mount the girl sprawled full length on the iron bench.

“That’s what normal people do, John,” said Sherlock quietly, “and it’s what I loathe. I can’t stand the thought of someone sweating and panting all over me.”

“Then we had better focus on what you do like.” John took Sherlock’s hand. “You’ve said it yourself more than once, normal’s overrated.”

“It’s what you think of yourself as being.”

“Maybe I’m starting to wonder about that.” John stared at the couple having sex on the bench. Yes, it turned him on, but he was acutely aware of Sherlock’s hand in his. “Can we just take this all one step at a time?”

“Of course,” Sherlock breathed the words out into the crisp night air. He looked across the river at the Portland stone buildings that lined the embankment and John watched his profile. “If we’re focusing on what I like would you hold me again, as you did the other morning?”

“Yeah, sure.” John swallowed trying to get some moisture back in his mouth and realised that Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. “Here?”

“The location doesn’t seem to have inhibited anyone else.”

“If we get done for indecency you’re explaining it to Lestrade.”

They sat back so that the iron ribs of the bench pressed into their spines. A breeze had arisen to ruffle the river and the clouds loomed above them. John shivered and they huddled together, pressed tight from thigh to shoulder. Sherlock parted his legs and unzipped, and John was sure that everyone on the embankment had heard that giveaway sound. He edged closer still. “Keep it under your coat or it’ll freeze.”

Sherlock chuckled under his breath. He wore expensive aftershave, all spiced cedar and something sweet that John couldn’t define. John slipped his hand under Sherlock’s coat, smooth wool and silk lining grazed the back of his hand. Then he found Sherlock’s open flies and made a nest of his palm. It was one of the strangest and yet the most sensual things he’d ever done. He felt Sherlock’s cock twitch occasionally in his curved hand. John longed to close his fingers around it and Sherlock must want it even more because his breath formed quick pulses of mist in the cold air. John’s arm began to ache. He changed position and his head found Sherlock’s shoulder. “How are you doing?”

Sherlock sighed. “I want to wank. I want it more than anything.” He gripped the metal arm of the bench and shifted restlessly. “But I won’t give in to it.”

“That’s because you’re a stubborn bastard.” And that was definitely a jerk not a mere twitch.

“You…” Sherlock rested his cheek on the crown of John’s head. “You wouldn’t let me anyway.”

John digested this little nugget of information. “Wouldn’t I?”

Sherlock shook his head fractionally, so that his hair rubbed against John’s. “The other morning when I told you that Mr Cock wanted to come you said that he wasn’t allowed to do that.”

“I didn’t mean…” John sat up and let his hand rest on Sherlock’s thigh. “What game are we playing here?”

“I wouldn’t mind…it might even help…” Sherlock put his hand over John’s. “If you told me what to do, as long as you didn’t tell me to do anything you know that I don’t want to do.”

“Do you know something? I actually understand that statement and that scares the shit out of me.” John rubbed his free hand across his jaw. This was way out of his comfort zone. Yer he couldn’t pretend that the idea didn’t appeal to him, Captain Watson, giving orders. “I’ve never had any experience with that kind of stuff, but this may be the only chance I ever get to boss you around.” He studied Sherlock’s face. There was a trace of nervousness there, but no uncertainty. “If we’re going to do this it’ll be the blind leading the blind, so we need a cut-off point, a safe word.”

Sherlock shut his eyes for a second. “Redbeard.”

“You and your bloody pirates.”

“Redbeard was my parent’s Red Setter. I adored him and he died.”

The pain in Sherlock’s voice surprised and touched John. He had never imagined him being a dog lover, not even as a kid. “Maybe we’ll get a dog one day.” It seemed perfectly possible that their life together might include dogs as well as other things that indicated permanence.


	7. Part One Empathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's doing his best, but this really isn't his area, not that Sherlock seems to mind.

Not tonight dear, I’ve got a headache. John didn’t think that Sherlock would accept that as an excuse, even if he did have a persistent knot of pain around his brow. He might have picked up a bug or maybe it was just stress. Breaking up with Janice had been a lot more fraught and protracted than he had expected it to be, but she had finally stopped phoning.

John straightened his collar in front of his bedroom mirror. “I don’t know what I’m meant to do with him.” His reflection wasn’t sympathetic. He just looked like him; fairish hair with a few threads of grey in it, medium height, well almost, check shirt and old jeans. Not a vision of a man who was about to dominate the universe or even Sherlock Holmes.

Perhaps he should have put his uniform on and given the whole thing some military humph.   He didn’t think that Sherlock was into uniforms though and this whole thing came down to what Sherlock was into. He could ask him to do anything - as long as it wasn’t something that Sherlock would find abhorrent. So although he was nominally in charge John wasn’t sure who would be rattling whose chains.

A snapshot image flashed across his mind.

Bloody hell. Where had that come from?

He very much doubted that Sherlock would go for it even if he had the equipment; chains and handcuffs weren’t the sort of thing he could nip out and buy in Asda. Not that he was convinced he could carry it off, especially not this first time.

Right, shoulders back, head up, think military even without the uniform. He didn’t want to waste an opportunity to boss Sherlock around. If in any doubt blag it, Captain Watson, and the men will never know. Not even the most observant man in the world? Hopefully not when he was letting Mr Cock do most of his thinking. John saluted his reflection and turned smartly on his heel. If he was going to do this he might as well enjoy it.

That resolution lasted until he reached the living room.

His nerves escalated the moment he saw Sherlock. He sat at his desk, frowning at the laptop screen, dressed in his usual black trousers and a navy blue shirt with the two top buttons undone. Nothing out of the ordinary there, just another day at Baker Street and not a penis in sight. Not yet anyway, but the air was charged with anxious anticipation. John took courage from the fact that Sherlock was as nervous as he was.   He shut the living room door with more force than it required. “On your feet, soldier.”

Sherlock glowered at the computer screen. “Two minutes.”

“Now.”

A smile flitted over Sherlock’s face and he closed down the laptop, deliberately slowly, and rose to his feet.

“Draw the curtains,” said John. They were not going to provide a show for the whole street.

Sherlock looked even more amused, but he did as he was told.

Christ, now what? John wished that he’d taken a paracetamol. He cleared his throat. “Stand over there in front of the fireplace and strip. Everything off, I want you stark naked for your medical inspection.”

“Isn’t it a medical examination rather than an inspection?”

“Just do it, will you?” snapped John. Maybe it was no bad thing that his headache was making him ratty.

Sherlock stripped, not in a sexual come hither way, he simply took his clothes off.   And there he was in all his glory, with his face in shadow and the plains of his body obscured by the gloom. John switched the light on. “Right, take two paces forward.”

Sherlock’s knees bumped into the armchair and he raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face in a little while,” said John darkly. “Left turn.”

The manoeuvre was gracefully executed.

And for my next trick. “At ease.”

Hands behind his back and feet apart Sherlock waited for his next move. John strode towards him. He would just have to wing it. “How long is it since you had an orgasm, soldier?”

“Nine days, sir.”

Sir? Bleeding hell. “And you’ve masturbated regularly during that time?”

“Every chance I got, sir.”

“That’s bloody true – It’s very unusual for a man not to ejaculate under those circumstances.” John’s gaze racked over Sherlock. Slender feet, strong thighs, a dark swirl of hair at his groin, a meagre scattering on his abdomen, thicker on his arms and largely absent from his chest. The pink nubs of his nipples stood out clearly.   John stepped around him, side and back, narrow hips and firm buttocks, topped by a slender sweep of back. How did the he keep so bloody thin? By not eating enough, that was how. He might introduce a dietary regime. The wanking plan.

“Is something wrong, sir?” asked Sherlock with a trace of impatience.

“Nothing obvious.” John kept his eyes fixed on the small of Sherlock’s back. “I assume that you have normal erections? That your penis responses to manual simulation by become thicker and longer?” There was a chocolate spot mole just above Sherlock’s left buttock. “That your balls swell and draw up close to your body, and that you experience an urgent desire to ejaculate?”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock was getting breathy. John saw his diaphragm pull in and then out again rapidly.

“Good, good.” Hell, he wasn’t supposed to be turning himself on. “That’s all as it should be then.” Help, I want a cure for a headache and a sex manual! “Stand to attention.”

“I am.”

Indeed he was, Sherlock’s cock had stiffened up nicely. John decided that he couldn’t be doing too badly at this domination lark. Sherlock’s plea from the embankment resonated in his memory. ‘I want to wank. I want it more than anything.’ Reverse psychology then.

He trailed his fingers over the hollow above Sherlock’s collarbone. His skin was smooth, but not as soft as a woman’s. Sherlock was all narrow hipped angles, all male from the shadow of a mustache above his red lips to his jutting penis. Fear flickered in John, why wasn’t he repulsed?   He refused to brood over the dilemma. “I need you to watch some pornography for me, so that I can gauge your reactions. Sit in my armchair with your legs apart and your hands on the arms. Do not touch your penis unless I give you express permission to do so.”

John braced himself for the refusal. Sherlock moistened his lips. “That may be difficult for me.”

“I understand that, but it’s the only way I can judge your responses.”

Sherlock sat as instructed.

John was all fingers and thumbs with the laptop. His usual porno vids wouldn’t work for Sherlock. He needed to find something that was more up his street. Did he really want gay porn on his computer? It was the best he could do, men wanking themselves and each other.

Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw it and John grinned. “I thought you might find this more to your liking than my collection.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “I underestimated you.”

“People often do,” said John smugly. He sat on the sofa opposite Sherlock. “Just watch the videos, please.”

John could only see the back of the laptop from where he was, but he was fascinated by Sherlock’s reactions. His gaze was riveted to the screen and his face wore that look of blissful agony John knew so well. Heat mottled his chest and his nipples were hard. Mr Cock was beyond hard, quivering in his eagerness. Sherlock moaned and reached for him.

“No,” said John with quiet authority. “Keep your hands on the arms of the chair.”

Sherlock shot him a baleful look. He clutched the armchair, bending forward a little at the waist. John realised that Sherlock’s determination not to fail was working against him. He was struggling to obey John’s command rather than admit that he couldn’t bear to keep his hands off himself. His rapid breathing mingled with the more theatrical groans emanating from the computer.

God, he was incredible. Sex on legs, legs that were both tense and restless, feet jiggling impatiently on the carpet. John wanted to hear him beg. “How…” He could barely catch his own breath and his jeans were too tight at the crotch. “How does your penis feel?”

“Hard, so hard.” Sherlock’s head lolled on the seatback and he blinked at John. “I have to touch it.” His hand moved again.

“I said no.”

“I have to wank.” Sherlock’s fist clenched on the chair arm and he thrust his hips into the air. “Oh God…” He grabbed his cock.

“Let go.” John was on his feet in an instant. He yanked Sherlock’s head back by his hair. “If you try that again I’ll tie your hands.”

Genuine apprehension appeared in Sherlock’s wide eyes. “I don’t want that. I don’t like being confined.”

John’s grip on his hair eased. He kept his hand there though, amidst the messed-up strands of hair that interlaced his fingers. “It’s okay. I’d never hurt you. If you would let me I’d wrap something soft around your wrists, not too tightly, just to stop you wanking. Then, I’d tease you, remind you how much you needed what you couldn’t have, and when you reached your limit I’d untie you immediately. Game over for today, time for you to shower and sleep.”

“Would you kiss me good-night?” whispered Sherlock.

John was overcome with emotion. “If you want me to.” He tapped his hand on Sherlock’s chin. “I’m not snogging you though.”

“I wasn’t asking for that” Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “It’s very unhygienic. Do you know how many germs are spread by kissing?”

John laughed. “I’m a doctor. I know all sorts of things about the human body.” He put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and the muscle jumped beneath it. “And my medical opinion is that you’re not going to be able to watch any more porn without wanking unless your hands are tied.”

Sherlock shivered. He stared down at John’s hand on his leg. “You had better tie them then.”

The soft blue belt from Sherlock’s dressing gown proved ideal. He shuffled forward in the chair and meekly put his arms behind his back. John made the knots firm without pulling them too tight. Sherlock would be able to wriggle out of his bonds if he really tried. “Okay?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“We’ll get this back on then.” John had stopped the video when he went in search of the belt, which had given Sherlock’s cock time to relax. “I’m going to stay right here in case you want to be untied in a hurry.” His knee cracked as he knelt on the floor next to Sherlock and leant forward to restart the porno vid.

It didn’t take much to get Sherlock excited again. A couple of minutes of explicit action had him gasping. He bent forward and then back, jiggling about in the chair and thrusting his hips. “Ah…” His moan was music to John’s ears, but he didn’t want him to get too overwrought. The poor bastard was desperate to get off and this wasn’t the time to find out if Sherlock could have a hands free orgasm. An onscreen climax dragged a particularly loud cry from him and John decided that enough was enough.

“Why did you stop it?” whined Sherlock. He wriggled, arching his spine into the chair back. “I was so close.”

“That’s why I stopped it.” John wiped his hand across his face. He was far more aroused than he wanted to be and if that jerking cock a few inches from his face was anything to go by it was a hundred times worse for Sherlock. “Just breathe deeply.” He grasped Sherlock’s knee. “Take it easy.”

“Fuck off!” Sherlock thrust again. “I want to wank.”

“No way.” John turned himself around so that he knelt directly in front of Sherlock. Empathy overcame his caution. “But I’ll hold your cock for you if you want me to.”

“Oh God, yes!” Sherlock’s pelvic thrust nearly landed him on the floor.

“Quietly then, just breathe.” Sherlock was in such a state that John didn’t dare close his hand at first.   The temptation to do so nagged at him; close, wank and watch Sherlock explode all over his hand. Then face the fireworks afterwards. He was meant to be the one keeping the brakes on here. So all he could do was to let it shake and leak in his palm until it finally relaxed.

“Untie me,” murmured Sherlock. Frustrated and unsatisfied he smelt of sex and looked exhausted, yet his gaze was gentle.

John loosened his bonds with his free hand. “Time to call it a night?”

“Definitely.” Sherlock sagged in the chair. “Oh John, I was right on the edge.”

“You did well to hold back.” John looked down at the penis in his hand and on sudden impulse he lowered his head to touch his mouth to the semi flaccid shaft. “There’s your good-night kiss.”

Sherlock reached out to him and their hands met. He lifted John’s fingers to his lips. “And there’s yours.”


	8. Part Two Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If at first you don't succeed...

Sherlock tried to concentrate on the forensics report he was reading and not on his cock’s repeated attempts to stand up without any encouragement whatsoever. Although he imagined that being ignored was encouragement enough. Day eight, not coming for a month, attempt number four.

The first attempt had been interrupted by his grandmother’s death. The second time one of them (and he was inclined to blame John) had miscalculated his response to simulation and he had only lasted sixteen days. Then the Tilbury corpses’ case had blown-up into a full-scale investigation that involved a mad dash from Paris to Berlin and barely any time to eat, sleep or masturbate for days on end.

So they had agreed to draw a line under their previous attempts and start again. It was now the first week of July and the British summer had for once decided to be summer. The pavements and brickwork were burning hot. The air quality was dreadful and London’s streets were full of confused tourists complete with their noisy, irritating children. Every time he stepped out of the door he was engulfed in a tide of normal people, of bright little families with all their dark secrets carefully hidden and even most of their secrets were dull.

If that was normality then they could keep it. He wouldn’t have swopped recent events for all the normality in the world. It wasn’t just the sexual side of things either. It was John. Sherlock would never have believed that he could be so enamoured of another human being. Nevertheless he was, and the sometimes volatile nature of their relationship only added to the excitement.

As did all John’s little presents. Sherlock eyed the plain brown box that sat on John’s chair awaiting his return. He would have to pretend that he didn’t know what it contained. It was intriguing though, he had never used one of those. John had got into his stride with this giving orders business as well and it sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine every time he went all military on him.

The stipulation for today was that he wasn’t allowed to touch himself at all while John was out. Unfortunately Mr Cock hadn’t got the message and it still kept trying to attract his attention. Sherlock sat back in the chair and undid the top button on his trousers to give himself more breathing space. Of course that only resulted in the damn thing bumping hopefully against his zipper.

Not a chance. John would be livid, besides it felt too delicious as it was, all shut in and impatient, creating a constant background hum of arousal. He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t enjoy being horny most of the time and his ability to master the frustration gave him a smug sense of self-satisfaction.   Sherlock rested his hand on his inner thigh, just above the pulse point and drifted with the sensations.

“Having a doze are we?” asked John cheerfully. He kicked the door shut behind him.

Sherlock sat up quickly. “A power nap.”

John snorted. “I’m not surprised it’s like a bloody oven in here.” He saw the box on his chair. “Oh, it came then.”

“Regrettably not,” Sherlock did his trousers up, “but it keeps getting hard even though I haven’t laid a finger on it.”

“I should hope not. I’m going to open the windows and let some air in, not that there is any air.” John stopped beside the desk. “Did you know that you’ve got five urgent emails from Lestrade? Re MEP monkey.”

“Let me see that.” Sherlock leapt to his feet. “The man’s an idiot.” He punched a couple of keys on the laptop before he turned to John with a big grin on his face. “We’re going to Hull.”

“We probably are, all fire and brimstone.” John pulled a face in response to Sherlock’s inquiring look. “Harry’s gone all religious now that she’s on the wagon. I had to sit through a lecture on the evil of my ways, not that she knows what my evil ways are, thank God. She’s even talking about becoming a nun.”

“Maybe she just likes the idea of being locked up with a lot of women.”

“And the communion wine.” John chuckled. “So why are we going to Hull?”

“Because you and I and Mr Cock have been very naughty, but a certain European Member of Parliament has been even naughtier.” Sherlock snapped the laptop closed. “We need to be on the next train, so the – the surprise will have to wait.”

John folded his arms. “And so will Mr Cock.”

*

Sherlock couldn’t quite recall when these butterfly kisses had started, but now John dropped two onto his straining shoulder. “Are you sure that you’re okay with this?”

“Yes, I think so.” He was naked in a hotel room in Hull, unsurprisingly erect, with his hands tied behind his back.

“Tell me if you get spooked.” John put his hand on the slight bump the dislocation had left. “Turn around. Right, you can do anything that you want, anything that you don’t need your hands for that is. There’s no restriction on humping just as long as you stay on your feet.” He waved his hand at the plain white and cream hotel room. “The world’s your oyster.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Lie on the bed, read a magazine, watch a bit of telly.”

Sherlock knew that the only thing John would be watching was him. There was already a bulge forming in his trousers. He enjoyed seeing the dazed lust in John’s eyes and he yearned to kiss those parted lips, but John was straight – almost straight – and he didn’t know how to kiss.

“Are you having second thoughts?” asked John. He looked concerned.

“I’m fine. I’ll just have a wander.”

The hotel room contained two beds, two chairs, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a mini fridge and a desk. Plenty to choose from then, but Sherlock quickly discovered that everything was too high or too low, too soft, lumpy or scratchy to hump for more than a few clumsy seconds. If he had been allowed to kneel down he could have rubbed his cock on the mattress or the padded seat of the armchair. As it was he paced the room in an agony of frustration.

Finally he stopped in the middle of the floor. “This is impossible. I can’t get any friction at all.”

John, who had devoured his every aborted attempt to hump something, was glassy eyed. “Too much friction might make you come. That’s why I impose these rules, but if you’re desperate you can straddle the armchair for a couple of minutes.”

Sherlock wanted to tell him to stuff it, but his cock didn’t and his cock won. John moved the chair away from the wall for him. “Thanks,” said Sherlock sarcastically. “I’m going to kill you for this.”

John laughed. “I’m being nice.”

“Piss off.” Sherlock put his right knee on the seat, sinking it down into the prickle of the beige plush and swung his left leg over the seat back to the floor. Thus mounted he paused to take a few deep breaths before he lowered himself so that his erection met the top of the chair. He thrust instinctively. “Ah…” The padded plush ridge beneath him chaffed, almost too solid for comfort. Yet he needed this so badly. His cock hurt and his balls ached. Everything inside him was wound so tight and he longed for that tension to shatter into orgasm. “Oh fuck. Fuck, I’m close.”

“Stop then.” The words were gently spoken.

Sherlock moaned. He wanted John to command, to instruct, because he couldn’t stop by himself. “Oh, no…” It was going to be too late if he didn’t control himself; everything ruined, all these lovely feelings thrown away in yet another failure.

He reeled away from the chair and John caught his arms to steady him. Sherlock leant forward and touched his mouth to his. John’s blown eyes went wider still, but he didn’t recoil. “What was that for?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Untie me.” He didn’t want to talk about what he’d just done.

*

They showered, first Sherlock and then John, who would take longer because he was going to wank off under the gushing water. Sherlock reclined on his bed to check his phone. The various messages could all be disregarded including another one from Mycroft about gramdmama’s wretched house. His body was sending him messages as well, twitches and aches to remind him that he hadn’t come. He rode out the shimmer of arousal, aware how bitterly he would have regretted giving in to it. John had complained that he had been unbearable for a week after his sixteen day disaster.

Not this time. This time he was going to stay the distance.

Even if he had been so close to coming after only eight days? Yes, so far it had followed the same pattern as previously with his sexual urgency soaring once he exceeded his usual five or six day limit.. His body seemed to sense that it was more than time for an orgasm and it plagued him with erotic dreams and daytime erections. But last time some of the intensity had abated once he reached the tenth or eleventh day. It was as if something had been reset deep inside, still wanting, still insisting, yet no longer trying to tear him apart. Perhaps there were medical reasons for it, but he didn’t care to explore them.

Nor would he linger on that moment when he had so inexpertly kissed John. Sherlock touched his fingers to his lips. John’s mouth had been wind chapped and –

“Do you want the telly on?” John was drying his hair with a hotel towel and it all stuck up in spikes.

Sherlock didn’t. He would rather savour this quiet time with John, but his was the only bed from which the small TV could be seen clearly. “If you like.” He moved over to make room for John on the single bed.

John left the TV on the channel it was set on and grabbed a pillow off his own bed to put behind his back. They sat like bookends while the North East news gave way to a talent contest. “She’s a crap singer.” John lowered the volume. He looked at Sherlock’s pyjama covered lap. “How’s Mr Cock?”

“Horny.”

“No change there then.” John winced at the telly. “Christ, she gives you a headache. Shall we turn this shit off and call it a night?”

“Yes, but...” Sherlock lifted his hips.

“Oh, Mr Cock wants a cuddle, does he?”

“Don’t be so infantile.” Sherlock didn’t know how he could possibly blush after everything that John had witnessed.

“Let’s get comfy then.” John hammered the pillows into shape and they settled down next to one another, close by necessity on the narrow bed. He slid his hand into Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. “All ready and waiting, poor little thing.”

“Not so much of the little.” Sherlock breathed in sharply, holding the muscles of his abdomen taut. John carried the aroma of hotel shampoo and his familiar aftershave. His fingers curled around his cock, a firmer grip than Sherlock had once permitted, but not pumping without his consent. “Ohh...”

John smiled. He had folded his other arm under his head. Sherlock had grown accustomed to seeing him settle for sleep that way. “Nice?” John whispered. His thumb found the root of Sherlock’s cock and stroked it gently. “You like that, don’t you?”

“You know I do. Oh, John…” Sherlock rolled onto his back. The spotlights on the ceiling gleamed like fallen stars. “Stroke me…all of me.”

Silence hung in the air for a second. “I’ve got a wet hand already.” John’s attempt at a joke was riddled with emotion.

“You’ve nothing to lose then, have you?” Sherlock whispered.

John lifted himself up on his elbow so that he gazed down into Sherlock’s face. “I’d never do anything that you didn’t want me to.” His hand moved slowly. “Just tell me when you need me to stop.”

Now. Never. Sherlock shivered. His cock was alive to every caress John gave him and he had thought that he was horny before. “Ah…that’s unbelievable.”

“God, you’re precumming so much it’s making a wet patch on your pyjamas.”

“I know.” He felt it seep out, a continuous portent of his impending climax. “I think you had better stop now.”

John withdrew his hand without a murmur of protest. The bed creaked when he sat up. “Let’s get some sleep then.” He bent over and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “Good-night.” His head moved down and his mouth met Sherlock’s briefly. “Okay?”

“More than.” Sherlock watched John climb into bed and dim the starlights to almost nothing. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips and was gratified to taste a trace of John there. Perhaps he could get used to this kissing lark, unhygienic as it was. All after John’s hand on his cock had become an absolute pleasure rather than an imposition. That gentle touch had nearly coaxed an orgasm out of him, but he was relieved that it hadn’t happened there and then. He didn’t want this fantastic game to finish prematurely. An image flickered insidiously behind his eyes of himself coming and coming whist John held his cock. That was how he wanted the game to end.

 


	9. Part Two Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day in the park, a bad night and some family problems for John.

They lay on the grass, so close together that anyone passing by would assume they were lovers. And there were a lot of passers-by, people with dogs and children, women in shorts and sandals, couples wandering hand in hand through the park. All drawn, as they had been, by the hope it might be a couple of degrees cooler down by the river.

“There isn’t a breath of air,” grumbled John. The grass under the tree where they were was still green, but the oak gasped sadly for water and the ground was parched. “We could use a good storm.” He liked thunder, all magnificent and elemental, but the forecast was for unremitting sun.

“It’ll break soon.” Sherlock lay on his back with his arm thrown across his eyes.

“The weather man says not.”

“It will.”

John was too hot to argue. “Whatever.”   He turned onto his side and hitched himself up on his elbow. His eyes drifted down to Sherlock’s smart shoes and upwards over his black trousers until they lingered on his groin; perhaps not completely flaccid. He wasn’t entirely uninterested himself, not that they could do anything about it here.   Not much point in looking then.

John sat up and put his arms around his knees. There was a woman with auburn hair on the other side of the path. She lay face down on a beach towel with her bikini bra strap undone. Her tiny pink bikini bottoms barely covered her arse; just tug them down and slide in.   He breathed in heavily, letting himself imagine it. She burst like a soap bubble as a different sexual vision filled his mind.

“Fuck.” He leant his forehead on his folded arms.

A hand came to rest in the small of his back. “John?”

“Yeah?” He flopped back down on the grass next to Sherlock. “You…you get to me sometimes.”

“Do I?” Sherlock moved his hand up until it rested on John’s shoulder.

John grasped Sherlock’s wrist, hot skin and a quick pulse. “Yes, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t like women, only that I’ll always come back to you afterwards.” Embarrassed by his own declaration he rubbed Sherlock’s wrist. “Are you horny?”

“Oh, yes.”

Stupid question, it was ten days since they began their game and last night Sherlock had been - so fucking beautiful. “If you were so inclined you could get anyone in the world you wanted into bed with you.”

“I’m not so inclined.”

“That’s good.”

“Why good?” asked Sherlock.

John had spoken without thinking. “Just because, well, it would complicate things.”

“Aren’t they complicated enough already?”

“I suppose.” What he had actually meant was that it was good that he would never have to share Sherlock with anyone else. That was a selfish perspective. Wouldn’t Sherlock be better off, happier, in a normal relationship? “Do you ever regret that you’re not inclined?”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “Never.” He brushed the back of his forefinger over John’s cheek. “Yet recently there have been moments…”

“What moments?” John’s chest was very tight.

Sherlock’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve never kissed anyone.”

The tiny distance between them was bridged in the space between one heartbeat and the next. Their only contact was in the press of their mouths and Sherlock’s clawing grip on John’s shoulder. He felt the yearning uncertainty in Sherlock and the tenderness. His mouth was softer than it had a right to be on this sun baked day, almost like a woman’s, yet with a reined in strength behind it. Inexpert, bumping his teeth into his lip, drawing forth a tiny bead of blood, but sweet, so very sweet.

They smiled shyly at one another.

John chuckled. “Now people really will talk.”

“Let them.” Sherlock rolled onto his back, into his own space. Then he reached across the grass and enfolded John’s hand in his.

Sunlight dappled the leaves above them. John blinked and dozed as the mosaic of it drifted through the heat of the afternoon. Lazy contentment underscored by a faint sexual stirring which Sherlock must be feeling far more. There was no rush though, no hurry. When it got a little cooler they’d find somewhere to eat before they meandered home. Then he’d fling the windows wide open to the sunset while Sherlock stripped off so that glorious cock of his could be teased and tormented to his heart’s content. Finally winding down into a nightcap and quiet conversation in their shadowy living room, perhaps even sharing another kiss before they parted for a tranquil and dreamless sleep.

*

“John. Stop it, John!”

The bomb blast reverberated through him. He was going to die. To become another screaming, burnt, disembowelled victim.

“John, it’s all right. I’m here.” He was shaken again. Strong hands grasped his shoulders and he fought them, keening in panic. His eyes flew open and the horror disintegrated into reality. “John,” Sherlock said gently and he threw himself into his arms like a terrified child.

Those arms held him and rocked, and that murmuring baritone told him that he was safe. Not that he was pathetic and useless, too close and too clingy. “I’m sorry,” John whimpered, but he didn’t let go of his lifeline.

“It’s all right, everything’s all right.” Lips touched his hair and brow. “Don’t cry.”

It was only then that John realised to his shame that he was weeping. He shuffled back and dragged his pyjama sleeve across his sore eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t keep apologising.”

John buried his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ, that was a bad one.”

“So I heard.” It was a jest without any ire behind it.

John blinked the dregs of sleep out of his eyes. His bedroom was sunlit, but Sherlock still had his pyjamas on. “Did I wake you up?”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

When he looked at him properly John saw that there were soot smudges of weariness under his eyes and he experienced a pang of guilt. Only Sherlock had said he wasn’t sleep and he fumbled back through his own disjointed memories of the night. It had been too hot to sleep well. He had tossed and turned under the thin sheet, thrown it off, gone to the loo and then back to bed. At some point in the early hours of the morning the nightmares had hunted him down.

“How the hell...we had such a good day yesterday.” John dropped back onto his pillows. He felt cheated by the terrors which had plagued him. “Maybe it was the heat, but I didn’t expect it.”

“Unfortunately these things tend to happen without warning.”

“They certainly do.” John touched the back of Sherlock’s hand. “Thanks for waking me up. What time is it by the way?”

“Twenty past five.”

“I’m going to get up then. I could do with a shower and a cup of coffee, not necessarily in that order.”

He was thankful to leave his chaotic bed and trundle off downstairs with Sherlock at his heels. Sunshine and caffeine worked their magic as did a long shower. It was already humid and he kept the water turned down to a refreshing lukewarm cascade. John yawned. His first thing in the morning erection had disappeared in the confusion and he couldn’t be bothered to wank anyway. He didn’t imagine that poor Sherlock felt the same way and his morning routine must have been thrown right off kilter. Actually there was something he needed to talk to him about. Not today. He couldn’t face an argument this morning. Some quiet time together was what was needed, lots of idle chat with a few sexy interludes thrown in.

“You’ve received four text messages in the last seven minutes,” Sherlock told him the second he walked back into the living room.

“Who the hell is it at this hour?” It was still only ten to six and John caught the mobile Sherlock tossed to him with a sense of foreboding. A glance at the screen confirmed his fears. “Why the fuck can’t she ever stay out of trouble for five minutes? Am I her bloody keeper or something?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What has your sister done now?”

“Bloody, bloody, bloody Harry. She went up the wall last night, literally, and down the pub. Absolutely rat arsed by all accounts.” He waved the phone at Sherlock. “They don’t put it like that, but that’s the guise of it. The retreat house are considering her future.”

“How very Christian of them.”

“That’s as maybe, but I’m the mug who’s going to have to go up there and smooth it all over before they throw her out on her ear.” John hammered off a text. “So much for a quiet bloody day.”

*

Another train, this time sweltering its way out of Kings Cross, headed north for Harry and trouble. “You didn’t have to come with me,” said John to Sherlock.

“I had nothing else to do. Everyone’s jetting off to the continent and there isn’t a decent crime to be had in the whole of London.”

“There’s one thing you could have done if you’d stayed at home.” The train carriage was packed and Mr Cock had been sadly neglected that morning.

“It won’t hurt him to have a little rest,” said Sherlock ruefully.

John gave a sideways look. They were seated next to each other on the airplane style seats and he moved a bit nearer. “Look, Sherlock, if it’s getting too much for you-”

“It isn’t.” Sherlock ran his arm through John’s and gave it a squeeze. “You’re tired and overwrought, deal with Harry and don’t worry about me and Mr Cock. We’re both fine.”

“Sherlock,” hissed John. He was afraid that someone had overheard the reference to Mr Cock. “Let’s discuss this at home.”

“Why don’t you discuss it with your therapist, John?”

“What?” The barbed question felt like a slap in the face and John was more outraged when Sherlock stared blandly back at him. “Why the hell should I?”

“Isn’t it her function to help you sort through your emotions, to make sense of all those conflicting feelings and to come to terms with your changing sexuality?”

“My sexuality isn’t changing.” John set his jaw. “I’m straight, end of.”

“I know, and so does most of the carriage, but that doesn’t explain your liaison with me nor your refusal to do the obvious and discuss it with your therapist.” All the sharp edged anger drained out of Sherlock. “Are you ashamed of me, John?”

“No.” The answer was heartfelt and instant. “I’m fucking proud of you.” He took Sherlock’s hand between both of his. “If I don’t talk about us in my sessions it’s because I don’t feel the need to and I don’t want what we have analysed and labelled to make it fit into a neat little psychological box where it doesn’t belong. There are no manuals for us, no roadmaps. We’ve got to make our own path.”

Sherlock smiled. “All roads lead to Rome?”

“Or to hell.” John sat back still clasping Sherlock’s hand. “Only the East Coast Mainline leads to York and Harry, and that I’m honestly not looking forward to that one little bit.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers. “I’d offer to help, but I shall only say the wrong thing.”

“That’s not difficult with Harry when she’s been on a bender. In fact it’s usually bloody impossible to say the right thing.” John settled down in the seat and his head touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you mind if I have a kip?”

“No.” After a moment’s vacillation Sherlock put his arm around him.

 


	10. Part Two Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trains, tempers and thunderstorms, and John has some explaining to do.

The dregs of twilight still held sway over the sky. It was purple rather than black, paling the half-moon to unpolished silver. Unfortunately the mood on the ground did not reflect the romance in the sky. John had sunk into a deep tantrum gloom which might already have burst into a paroxysm of rage if the platform wasn’t so crowded.

The last train of the night was due in ten minutes and there they all were. Boring, dull, a woman having an affair with her sister’s husband, a history student wondering how to tell his parents he’d failed his finals, better that than to be the boy with cancer. Sherlock sat back on the bench with his hands in his pockets. John was enthralled by the tarmac, head down and mouth pinched into a tight line.

He obviously had Harry’s diatribe on a loop in his head. Round and round the garden like a teddy bear. Sherlock tutted impatiently; the woman had been vicious from start to finish, laying into John and his ‘fancy man’ the second they walked through the door.   Insults and accusations had flown like high velocity bullets. John was a fucking hypocrite, a bleeding liar. He had been the golden boy, grammar school, medical school and Sandhurst. Good old John, straight as a dye John. Their parents had been so proud of him while she had been reviled for her sexuality, drowning her misery in a whisky bottle at fifteen.

“And it was all a fucking lie!” Harry had screamed at John. “You think I haven’t suspected it for years? You’ve had more girlfriends than I have, but none of them ever lasted, did they? Mum and dad pinned all their hopes of grandchildren on you and here you are nearly forty, never married, never lived with anyone.” She stabbed the air in Sherlock’s direction. “Except him of course, all nice and cosy, sticking your cock up his arse every night.”

“I’m not gay!” John had bellowed and she had laughed in his face.

Then Harry had turned on Sherlock. “Doesn’t he piss you off? Hiding in the closet, too ashamed to admit that he’s queer for you.”

“John isn’t gay,” Sherlock had said calmly and that incensed her even more. A vicious slanging match followed which ended with John storming out.

Now the fury thick silence held them both in its grip. Sherlock was determined not to break and be the first one to speak. This was what happened when you got involved with other people. They always let you down. John had insisted that he wasn’t ashamed of their relationship on the journey up, but it had only taken a few choice words from Harry to throw him into a flat spin. He would be better off without him, pleasuring himself, pleasing himself, not having to put up with strawberry jam for breakfast and John’s favourite toothpaste in the bathroom. Why couldn’t the bloody man ever buy the one that he liked?

“Train’s here,” said John.

Those were the first words he had spoken for half an hour and he wasn’t inclined to talk on the train either. He also nicked the window seat so Sherlock had to fume in the aisle seat which he hated.   If he had known all this he would have stayed at Baker Street and let John come on his own or never got involved in the first place. It wasn’t as if there was anything special about John Watson. Sherlock eyed his own reflection in the train window. He was taller and slimmer than John, with better hair and much more dress sense. Naturally his intellect was far superior as well. When all was said and done John was a very ordinary little man.

“What time do we get into Kings Cross?” asked John without turning his head.

“One in the morning as you well know,” Sherlock told the back of his neck.

“Right.” John’s eyes met his in reflection and Sherlock saw a smidgen of a smile in the dark glass. There was nothing to smirk about and Sherlock glowered back at him or rather he tried to.

John looked round at him. “What are you smiling at?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You, I suppose.”

A rueful chuckle escaped John. “God, what a fuck up.”   He turned around to face Sherlock. “Harry’s a pain in the arse, but some of what she said to me hit hard. I’m honestly not gay, but we’ve crossed a line somewhere and when I think of all the things I’ve done with you…” John’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve even kissed your cock for Christ’s sake, how do I claim to be straight after that?”

“Why should you claim to be anything? I don’t even know if there’s a word for what I am apart from the one that Donovan uses.”

John gripped his hand. “You are not a freak.”

“What am I then? Completely self-centred and selfish? So enamoured of myself and so introverted that I don’t even want sexual contact with another human being.” Sherlock looked at John, ordinary, wonderful John. “Or I didn’t until you came into my life and there are still boundaries that I’m not prepared to cross.”

“There are things that I wouldn’t want to do either.” John smiled and it was like the sun coming out in the middle of the night. “People might think that I was gay.”

“People seldom think about anything.” Sherlock looked down at their joined hands. “They go for the obvious because it’s all their little brains can cope with and if they see us holding hands they’ll assume that we’re a couple.”

“They assume that anyway, besides we are, aren’t we?” said John quietly.

“Yes, I suppose that we are.” That idea ought to have disturbed him. He didn’t do sentiment and all that one-half-of -a-whole rubbish, but actually it seemed rather marvellous.

*

“It’s what couples do, isn’t it?” cried Sherlock gleefully. “They walk in the rain?”

“That’s not rain, it’s a bloody monsoon.” John eyed the rain flooding off the station roof dubiously. “Either one of us has even got a jacket. We’ll be soaked to the skin in five minutes.”

“So?” Sherlock jumped down the station steps into a large splashy puddle. He grinned at John with water streaming down his face. “I’m wet already, now it’s your turn.”

Thunder rumbled and lightening forked the sky high above the rooftops of Kings Cross. That made John’s mind up for him. “I love a storm.” Half blinded by the driving rain he joined Sherlock at the bottom of the steps. “This is nuts.”

“Good.” Sherlock tipped his head back to the thunderous sky. “It’s alive, John. We’re alive, not cold and dead like grandmamma, so let’s make the most of it.”

“Before we catch pneumonia,” grumbled John good-naturedly.

Sherlock flung his arm around John’s shoulders and John slipped his around Sherlock's waist.   They walked home with the crashing roar of thunder and the white stab of lightening forming a magnificent backdrop to their antics. Laughing, splashing, teasing, and once kissing beneath an amber streetlight, they made their way back to Baker Street.

They shed their storm soaked clothes in a pile on the living floor.  Naked and unselfconscious they grinned at one another. John threw Sherlock a towel from the washing machine. “Here, dry your hair.”

Sherlock let the towel swing from his hand. “I’d rather dry yours.”

“What for?” John tried to smooth down the spikes of sodden hair that dripped water into his eyes.

“I like it,” said Sherlock simply, “especially when it’s all tousled up like that.”

“You’re the one with the sexy Byronic curls.”

“Obviously I am,” Sherlock approached him towel in hand, “but I’d still like to dry your hair.”

“Okay.” John looked adorable, all rain washed and uncertain. Sherlock wiped the fluffy towel over his upturned face before he draped it over his head.

“I can’t see now.” John pushed the towel out of his eyes; mere inches away and Sherlock kissed him, lightly and briefly. Then he set about drying John’s hair, massaging his scalp with the towel and finger combing the wet strands into place.   John gave a tiny nod in reply his raised eyebrow and he rubbed the towel over arms, chest and belly, down to the cock that rose to meet it. He had never touched John there before, not even with a bundle of damp cotton. It was different, not his, yet so very similar and he knew that throaty sigh that filled his ears.

John grasped his wrist. “Your turn.”   Sherlock was already hard and eager, and the gentle drying made him shiver with delight. “You didn’t have time for anything today, did you?” he asked with a tiny kiss to the dislocation bump on Sherlock’s right shoulder.

“Yesterday.” The witching hour was long since past. “Just a five minute wank in the station toilets at York.”

The towel was rubbed around his navel and John’s finger dipped into his belly button. “Do you want a little go before we turn in for the night?”

Sherlock swayed with the movement of the towel. “Just me or both of us?”

“Both, but I’ll stop before I finish, it wouldn’t be fair on you otherwise.”

Sherlock longed to see John climax, yet it might not be wise to lay such a pearl of temptation before him. The towel was discarded and the lamp lowered to a mere glow.   They kissed and each settled into his accustomed place, John in his armchair and Sherlock on the sofa. It sank beneath him, cold at first on his naked body and then warming as he did. The fabric smelt homely and he sighed in contentment. His hand was a lazy caress on his cock and he watched John with hooded eyes. They found a rhythm together, a perfect synchronicity of movement.

*

The sun was in his eyes. He squinted and scrambled up on the sofa. John was asleep in the armchair opposite him, sprawled out in his birthday suit. Sherlock rubbed his chin and stubble prickled his hand. He needed a shave and a shower. A pee wouldn’t come amiss either. That thought made a tentative connection in his sleepy head. His cock had needed something else the previous night, as had John’s, but they must have fallen asleep while they were wanking.

Sherlock staggered to his feet. He had been lying on his left leg and had to hold the sofa back to stamp out the pins and needles.

“Stop making so much noise.” John screwed his eyes shut and then opened them. “It’s board daylight, did we nod off?”

“Apparently.” Sherlock headed for the hallway.

“Where are you going?”

“Loo.”

“Put the kettle on on your way there, I could murder a cuppa.” John had started to yawn and stretch by the time Sherlock reached the doorway.

John had brewed strong tea by the time he returned, but he hadn’t bothered to cover his nakedness. Mr Cock decided that he liked the sight of a nude John first thing in the morning and Sherlock petted himself idly while they drank their tea.  The slow masturbation was limb tremblingly good and John wasn’t unaffected by it either. John said that he wasn’t gay, yet he found him attractive, a turn on, otherwise why would he have… Sherlock smiled wickedly, unable to resist the temptation to tease his beloved friend. He gave his cock a conciliatory pat. “There was a dreadful rumpus about that photograph, you know.”

“What? What photograph?” John looked as if he wanted the ground to open and swallow him up.

“The one of me that you took from gramdmama’s house.” Sherlock let John squirm for a moment before he continued. “Her lawyer took it into his head to double-check the inventory and discovered that it was missing. The fool then accused the carer of taking it and-”

“Why would she want a picture of you?” John seemed irritated by the very idea.

“Perhaps she reads your blog.”

“I’m being serious, Sherlock.” John was both embarrassed and belligerent.

“Seriously then, Mycroft told the lawyer that she wasn’t the culprit.   Then Mycroft contacted me, demanding that I instruct you return the photo immediately.”

“Well, of course he can have it if he wants it,” said John with as much dignity as a nude, guilty man could muster. “I just never thought of him as being the sentimental type. Still there was that photo of you and him as kids and-”

Sherlock burst out laughing. “Mycroft doesn’t want the photograph, you idiot, it’s the valuable antique frame that he’s worried about.”

“Valuable? It’s just a bit of gilt tat.” John’s eyes went very round. “Oh shit, it’s gold.”

Sherlock nodded slowly.

“I didn’t realise. It was just a keepsake. You know, I just thought I’d…”

“Keep it your army strongbox, wrapped in your mother’s favourite silk scarf?”

John went an interesting shade of beetroot. “You had no business poking and prying amongst my things. Is nothing private with you?”

“Apparently not.” Sherlock indicated their naked bodies with a wave of his hand. “Relax, John, it was just a lucky guess.”

John frowned suspiciously. “You never guess.”

Sherlock winked at him and John chuckled. “Look, I’ll apologise to Mycroft and give the photograph back. You know that I’d never steal from him.”

“Oh, John, do try to keep up. Grandmamma didn’t leave the house to Mycroft. That photograph frame is mine, not his, and I’ve already told him that you can keep it.”

“You bastard!” John hurled a cushion at him which Sherlock batted away. “Haven’t you ever done something on the spur of the moment that you were embarrassed about afterwards?”

“Yes, once,” admitted Sherlock, “but I’m not telling you what it was.”

 


	11. Part Two Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has some more explaining to do and Sherlock smells a rat...well, of a rat actually.

Now Lestrade was the one who was embarrassed. He took a hasty swig of his pint. “Even the beer’s warm. Look, John, it’s none of my business, but those two uniforms saw you soaked to the skin and all over each over like a bad rash. Now the whole bleeding division knows about it and I thought forewarned is forearmed.”

“Okay, thanks Greg.” John didn’t know what else to say. He hadn’t even seen the police patrol car although he would bet his own weight in warm beer that Sherlock had.

“It’s not something that I can keep the lid on, you know how people talk.”

John’s mouth twitched up into a private smile. “Tell me about it, on second thoughts don’t.” They could ride this out and Sally Donovan was the only one who would dare say anything to their faces.

“Do you want one for the road?” offered Lestrade.

“Thanks.” John wasn’t too bothered about having another beer, but it gave them time to get over the awkwardness. He liked Lestrade and he needed someone sane to talk to sometimes. It would be a damn shame if this punched a hole in their friendship. Not that Lestrade was stupid enough or bigoted enough to imagine that he was going to jump him in the gents.

“I’m not even gay,” muttered John.

“What’s that?” Lestrade had returned from the bar with beer and crisps.

“Nothing.”

John wasn’t sure if Lestrade had heard his remark or not, but once he’d sat down again on the wooden bench the detective regarded him contemplatively. “You’ve always sworn that you and Sherlock weren’t an item. Why all the cloak and dagger stuff? It’s hardly illegal anymore and Sherlock’s never given a shit about what people think of him.”

“It’s complicated,” said John, “and believe it or not I’m not actually gay.”

Lestrade choked on his beer. “According to those two officers you were doing a bloody good impression of it the other night.” He put the glass down and wiped his mouth. “Still I did wonder if it was a wind up at first. Nothing Sherlock does would ever surprise me, but I know you’ve not been short of girlfriends.” He smirked. “What about those Scottish twins we pulled in here that night?”

“Yeah, I remember them.” Claire and Stacy, dark curls like Sherlock’s and big knockers. That had been about six months ago and how his life had changed since then. And Lestrade thought that Sherlock couldn’t surprise him. The wanker even managed to surprise him sometimes, like that business on the bus the other day. Sherlock never travelled by bus and he had been suspicious the moment he had suggest boarding one in Oxford Street. Then Sherlock had let eight or nine of them go by until he’d spotted the one he wanted. Empty top deck, masturbating at the back, not because he was desperate enough to do it in public, but out of sheer bravado and needless to say to wind him up.

Lestrade nudged him. “Stop daydreaming, they were bloody good though, weren’t they?”

“Not bad at all,” said John. This was one misunderstanding he wasn’t about to iron out.

“So you swing both ways, is that it?” There was the deceptively causal sixty-four thousand dollar question.

“If you want to put it like that.” John wasn’t even sure he was bisexual, but people liked labels and this one might make it easier for Lestrade to understand where he was at. More importantly it might stop him asking too many awkward questions. He raised his glass. “Cheers, Greg.”

*

John went shopping after he left the pub. There were a couple of things that he wanted to add to the growing collection of recreational items they had at home. The first was easily obtained in Liberty on Regent Street, but the other took a lot more tramping around in the heat. Summer had returned with a vengeance in the wake of the storm and the air shimmered as if it might burst into flame. John was considering doing the same thing by the time he found what he wanted in a little shop in Convent Garden. He decided that his success warranted another beer, even at tourist prices. He’d have to watch his budget though or his credit card would give out long before Sherlock’s libido did. At least most of his presents were appreciated, apart from the one that Sherlock refused point blank to use and another that had proved all too effective. It had been responsible for Sherlock’s loss of control halfway through their second attempt at a month’s abstinence. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to use it since, which was a shame because he had loved seeing him how wild it drove him. God, maybe he was bisexual, Sherlock sexual anyway. John turned that thought around, examining it from all angles, and concluded that it wasn’t such a bad thing to be.

*

Sod’s law; anything that can go wrong will go wrong. There was a note on the mirror when John got home. Actually scrawled on the glass – Gone out, back later. SH.

“You could have sent me a text,” said John. He wasn’t about to try and scrape black marker pen off the mirror either.   With all his plans for the afternoon in tatters he stomped around the airless flat for a bit, getting more and more annoyed with himself. Why should he just hang around here at Sherlock’s beck and call? He had a life of his own, friends of his own, people he could phone for a chat.  There was Greg Lestrade for a start, but he’d already had a drink with him at lunchtime, and Mike Stamford, who was on holiday with his family. That was something he was a bit short of, his parents were dead and Harry had done a runner from the retreat centre in York. He had no idea where or how she was. His texts and voice messages had gone unanswered.

“Sorry, sis.” John felt irrationally guilty about Harry. She was wrong to think that he’d concealed his real sexuality from their parents, but had been their favourite long before she had been gusty enough to come out at fifteen. ‘You make sacrifices for boys’ their mum used to say and he was the one who had a brilliant future. Harry was the disappointment, the shame, to be trundled off to the GP in the hope of a cure. No wonder the poor kid had taken to drink. He left her another voice message, call me and we’ll talk.

What now? He could take a leaf out of Sherlock’s book and have a wank. No, not in the mood and he couldn’t be arsed picking up a woman either. Go to the supermarket and cook a meal? Not in a million years, he wasn’t Sherlock’s fucking wife.  Nip down and have a chat with Mrs Hudson, dodging all her questions about the funny noises coming from their flat at all hours? She’d nearly caught them at it last week and that was Sherlock’s fault for kicking the coffee table over in a fit of frustration. At this rate they would end up either giving her a shock or a thrill dependant on their elderly landlady’s reaction to two naked sexually aroused men.

Either way some space and privacy wouldn’t go amiss.

*

John had never found the scent of a man attractive before Sherlock and right now he smelt as unattractive as he could get. “You stink like a sewer.”

“So would you if you had spent most of the afternoon grubbing about in one.” Nevertheless Sherlock made a beeline for the bathroom.

John followed him down the hallway, albeit at a distance. “What were you doing down a sewer?”

“Some utilities workers claimed to have encountered a giant rat in the Fleet sewer.” Sherlock stopped in the middle of the bathroom to undress. “Their line manager is some cousin or the other of Molly’s and I owed her a favour so down I went.”

“What for? It’s hardly surprising to find a big rat in a sewer, especially not in this weather. Shouldn’t Molly’s cousin have called Rentokil instead of Sherlock Holmes?”

“Giant.” Sherlock stretched his arms out on either side of his body. “Rat.”

“Almost as big as your ego then.” John stood in the bathroom doorway. “You’re not seriously telling me that the thing is supposed to be that size?”

“Not just supposed to be, it is. They captured it on CCTV last night. Have a look at it on my laptop, unless you fancy scrubbing my back for me?”

“No thanks, not with you smelling like that,” said John, “and don’t make such a mystery out of everything. Why couldn’t you have told me where you were off to?”

Sherlock switched the shower on. “I couldn’t fit it all on the mirror.”

“Write smaller next time.”

Rat. Giant, for the use of. There it was in grainy black and white, about three feet tall if the size of the manhole behind it was anything to judge by. Unless it was some sort of computer generated trickery? Sherlock didn’t think so though and the brief footage lacked the clean lines of a simulation. John watched it twice more while Sherlock created a national water shortage in the bathroom. He was very fastidious and washing off the odour of the sewers to his standards might take some time. John thought that he might as well see what he could find out about giant rats while he waited.

Sherlock came in ten minutes later, still towelling his hair dry. His blue dressing gown flapped open as he strode over to the desk. Well, he was nothing if not modest. “What did you find out?”

“Reports of giant rats in press from London, Birmingham and Liverpool amongst other places, but by giant they mean about the size of a domestic cat, not the monstrosity in that footage. A new species of giant rat was discovered in Papua New Guinea in 2009 which is about three foot long and rats of the same size have been reported in Florida.” John tapped the computer screen. “This must be about twice that length. That’s about it, there are various extinct animals that are described as giant rats, but again we’re talking cat sized. The Capybara is the largest living rodent, but it doesn’t have a tail like our friend here.” Sherlock’s dressing gown brushed John’s face as he sat back. “Your guess is as good as mine.” The only thing John was sure of was that his cunning plan was going down the drain with the rat, not that Sherlock would have agreed to it anyway.

“I’ll sleep on it.”

John looked up at him in surprise. “Isn’t it a little early for bed?”

“Not if we’re going rat hunting later.”

“We’re going rat hunting?” echoed John. “When did I volunteer for sewer duty?”

“You wouldn’t want to miss the fun, would you? Talking of which I thought that we might amuse ourselves while we’re waiting for the midnight hour.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” John tried to keep a straight face. “So not only do I get dragged through a sewer at some godforsaken hour I also get the privilege of watching you wank beforehand?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock smiled slyly. “I might even let you play with Mr Cock.”

And the bastard knew that was an offer John couldn’t refuse.

 


	12. Part Two Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex and sewers, but there's a bit more to it than than as their relationship moves slowly forward.

Fuck, it was urgent and John wasn’t helping. Correction, John was only helping to drive the sensation higher and higher. This whole business was perilous because with John in control the stop message had further to go. Sherlock could stop masturbating the instant he experienced the clench of impending orgasm, but this time he had to relay the information to John. Those precious seconds might prove to be his undoing, especially since John had stopped trying to copy his technique.

“Do it your way,” Sherlock had told him and the stilted movements had instantly become far more fluid. He had bitten into his lower lip, torn between pleasure and the disconcerting sensation of another hand using a different method to masturbate him. John had touched him before, but he hadn’t lain back on his disarrayed bed and given himself entirely into his hands.

At least he wasn’t the only one so affected, John was as naked as he was and nearly as hard. His erection bobbed as he bent forward to nuzzle Sherlock’s ear and then Sherlock saw him wrinkle his nose. “What’s wrong?”

“Your hair’s still a bit whiffy.”

“Oh, hell.” Sherlock started to sit up and John pushed him back down onto the mattress. “Do you really want to wash it again now?” asked John. His clever fingers rolled over the head of Sherlock’s cock and down the underside. Sherlock groaned and surrendered to his ministrations. “I thought not,” said John smugly.

For once in his life Sherlock couldn’t think of a snappy comeback. His whole world was firmly focused – very firmly focused – on what John was doing to him. He giggled, much firmer and he’d explode. Not that he intended to let John know that. “Ah, that’s good…” Sherlock compressed his ragged lips. Quiet, just be quiet and- “Ahh, John!” Now the bastard was laughing. “Not funny.” Not safe either, too close, far too close, but he couldn’t summon up the will to stop him. Just once more twist of John’s wrist wouldn’t hurt, he could ride it out. There. And again. Best of three and – Sherlock grabbed John’s hand. “Stop, stop, stop!”

John obeyed and Sherlock cursed him to hell for it.

“Language, Sherlock.” John shook with laughter.

Sherlock chuckled weakly and rolled onto his side. “I need two minutes.” No, he didn’t. He needed to come like a fucking stallion. Sherlock bent his legs at the knee and immediately stretched them out again, fighting the urge to get himself off.

John touched his hand. “Are you all right?”

“Just about.” Sherlock turned to face him. “And no thanks to you.”

“I stopped when you told me to and I didn’t hear you complaining.” John sniggered. “Moaning and whimpering, but not complaining.”

“I do not moan and whimper.”

“You do once you really get into it.” John looked adorable and adoring. “God, you’re amazing.”

“I know.” Sherlock tugged John’s hand urging him to lie down beside him. “Give me a little longer and I’ll be amazing again.” He was still too sensitive for another round and John was restless with arousal as well. The sheets were a rumpled up ridge under Sherlock’s hips and he turned again seeking a comfortable spot in the chaotic bed. A strand of hair fell across his eyes and he acknowledged that it did still smell faintly of the Fleet sewer. He would need to shower before they left to wash away the aroma of sex anyway, so there was no rush. John had moved with him. He flung his arm across Sherlock’s waist and curled around him so that his erection nestled almost in the crack of his arse. Sherlock breathed out, testing his own reaction to the intimacy of their embrace and found it to be profoundly pleasant, reassuring as opposed to threatening.

He put his hand over John’s and led it down between his legs. “Touch my balls, just my balls.”

“What did your last servant die of?” murmured John. He kissed the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “God, these are so full.” He rolled Sherlock’s balls in his palm. “You’ve never let me do his before.”

Why did John always have to state the obvious? And why did he want to beg him to touch his cock when he’d just told him not to? His bed would smell of John until they stripped it down and dumped everything in the washing machine. Then it would just be sterile, chemical fabric conditioner again. Fake jasmine, but John was more than real. His body heat, his erection, the cunning squeeze and roll of his fingers. “You’re good at this,” whispered Sherlock.

John’s breath gusted over the top of his spine. “I know.”

Sherlock couldn’t drag up all the questions about how and why a straight man – “Oh...” He had never been able to come from this alone, not when he did it to himself. It was a tease rather than a means to an end, but perhaps he should stop John before that razor wire of lust inside him tightened and snapped. “Ah, please!”

John withdrew his hand, trailing his fingers over Sherlock’s stomach and hip as he did so. “I think you’ve had enough, you never say please.”

Sherlock trapped John’s hand on his hip and held it there. Everything was damp with the sweat of desire, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, and a muted groan was wrenched from John. Give in. Give them both what they wanted and to hell with this stupid wager.

“This is changing us,” said John. “It’s the road to Damascus, although fuck knows where we’ll end up.”

“In the Fleet sewer in about three hours,” joked Sherlock.

“You take me to all the best places.” John sat up. There was a sheepish expression on his face and a prominent erection between his legs. “I’m going upstairs to sort myself out.”

“Stay.” Sherlock grasped John’s thigh, wiry hair and solid muscle when he squeezed it. “You can sort yourself out here.”

“I don’t know, maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

It was an insane idea. Did he honestly think that he could watch John wank, that he could watch him come, without losing everything that was pent up in his swollen balls? Less than two minutes ago he had been ready to yield to temptation without that added incentive. Yet if he could hold out it would be a triumph of spirit over flesh, evidence that he was the master of his body. Almost more importantly it meant that he would not be left in solitary splendour while John masturbated alone in the room above. He reached out to him. “Stay with me.”

John stayed. He knelt in the middle of the bed while Sherlock sat at its head with his hands fisted in the sheets, knowing that he didn’t dare to touch himself, barely dared to breathe while John masturbated. They cried out in unison when John came in strong rapid pulses.

For an instant Sherlock was sure that he was lost. “Ah God…” He clenched his teeth into his torn lip until the threat finally subsided. “Oh John…” He sagged, worn ragged by his efforts. “I nearly came.”

“I said it wasn’t a good idea.” John was lazy eyed with pleasure, but his voice brimmed with concern. “Lie down and try to relax.” His hand trailed over Sherlock’s face. “You haven’t said that you want to end this, but if you do-”

“I don’t and you mustn’t let me even if I say that I do.” Sherlock kissed John’s palm. “Not yet, we’ve a lot further to go than the Fleet sewer.”

“Okay.” John flopped down beside him. “Lestrade thinks I’m bisexual.”

There wasn’t anything in his tone to suggest that Sherlock needed to worry about that statement. “Why? What did you do to him?”

“Don’t be daft. A patrol car passed us when we were larking about in that storm the other night and now half of Scotland Yard thinks we’re at it like a pair of jack rabbits.”

Sherlock laughed softly. “Then they’re wrong, aren’t they?”

“Definitely.”

They lay face to face, close, but not touching. John was limp and sated while Sherlock was still strongly erect, but they were of a single mind. They closed their eyes, feigning sleep so that they didn’t need to discuss whether John should stay in Sherlock’s bed.

*

Sherlock had never seen John in such a blind panic before, if he had asked him the same question once he had asked it twenty times on the way back to Baker Street.

“I’m all right,” Sherlock repeated through gritted teeth. “It didn’t touch me. I was still a good ten paces away from it when you shot it.”

“It sprang at you.” John’s face was pasty white in the reflection of shop and streetlights blurring past the taxi window.

“And dropped dead at my feet because you put four bullets into its brain.” One would have felled the giant rat and the way John had kept firing his service revolver proved how freaked out he was by the creature.

It hadn’t been like that at first. They had dragged themselves out of bed and out of Baker Street into the mellow night. Once they got going John had been keyed up, eager for an adventure. They both had been although their yawns drew worried glances from Molly’s kindly round faced cousin. Sherlock had concurred when he insisted that everyone don the appropriate safety gear before they descended into the dank sewer network beneath the Farringdon Road. He wasn’t about to ruin another expensive suit.

All kitted up with oxygen and gas monitors attached they clambered down the greasy metal ladder. The stench hit before Sherlock had time catalogue their surroundings, a sweet florid stink that made his stomach heave. It seemed worse than on his previous visit to the captive river.

“That’s what your hair smelt like,” John muttered at his elbow before he moved aside to make way for the two sewer workers who accompanied them. Sherlock shot him a look that was dirtier than the sewage that floated around them. John stared back at him, not the least bit abashed. Then he turned to one of the sewer men. “Which way?”

“Up river, that’s where we got them pictures last night.” The man, Davies, shone a powerful torch beam to indicate the way they were to go.

It was a repulsive trudge through the refuse of London’s sinks and toilets, and sometimes a dangerous slide on the perilously slippery brickwork. The surefooted sewer men sniggered every time either he or John nearly toppled into something particularly unpleasant.

“You get used to it, mate,” Ravi Singh told them cheerfully. He worn a turban under his extra-large safety helmet and cast a distorted shadow onto the curved walls of the tunnel.

The walls were an amalgamation of past centuries and building styles. In places the tunnels were bisected by modern sections constructed during the building of the Jubilee line extension, although most of the cavernous underground cathedral to human waste had been created in the Victorian era. It showed its age, mortar had slithered down from between the bricks into the green water that swirled around their knees. Here and there the red clay bricks had split apart and the walls gapped wide enough for the normal rats to scurry into their recesses as they approached.

John chatted with the sewer workers and they regaled him with tales of corpses, lost treasure and Boudicca’s legendary battle bridge. He took it all in good part, even when they tried to scare him with tales of violent flash floods and tragically drowned men.

Sherlock thought that this was how John must have been in his army days, a cheerful officer who was popular with his men. People liked John. They trusted him and confided in him, just as he had done. All his secrets laid bare, a weapon potentially far more powerful than the gun John carried.

John half turned to smile at him, reaffirming a bond that went far beyond idle chatter in the murky depths of London. “This is bloody hard going.”

“If you can’t stand the pace stay out of the sewer.” The going was actually getting harder and time had started to crumble the blackened brickwork. Sherlock and Singh, the two tallest men, had to stoop when the tunnel roof became lower and the walls narrower.

“This is the oldest part of the system,” whispered Davies. “Georgian, Tudor, some even reckon Roman.”

He spoke as if he was in church and the banter had died away. The men were grim faced and getting jumpy. Sherlock wasn’t disturbed by their fairy tales or by the noxious vapour that arose from the stagnant water. It was only a chemical mixture incubated by heat and organic waste.

“It’s not setting off the gas detectors so we’re okay,” said John, equally practical and unafraid. “It’s bloody hot down here though.”

“I noticed.” The sweat ran down Sherlock’s back under his protective clothing and when he wiped his hand across his brow it came away black with grime.

It was the heat that brought about the parting of the ways when Singh swayed, almost passing out. Davies held him up against the tunnel wall and John checked him over. When Singh admitted that he’d only just come back off sick leave John insisted that he and Davies stay where they were.

Sherlock declared that he and John would push on to the next intersection and then turn back if there was no sign of the giant rat. When they reached the begrimed brick convergence of three tunnels they stole a brief kiss before they made their way back. He wouldn’t be sorry to get back above ground even if they hadn’t found the rat. His back and neck ached from bending so much and his headache was getting harder to ignore.

“Just a second,” said John. He pointed at a tiny alcove in the tunnel. “I’m going to see a man about a rat.”

“Can’t you wait until we get out of here?” It was all right for John. He hardly had to bend at all.

“Nope. I’ve been dying to go for ages.”

Sherlock folded his arms and waited while John pissed. Just when he thought that John should be moving away he swung his torch beam in an arc over the alcove floor. “Sherlock,” he said slowly, “what do very large rat paw prints look like?”

“Like ordinary rat paw prints only bigger.” He should have looked up raw prints before they left, but his mind had been on other things. Sherlock stared at the ground over John’s shoulder. “Like those I imagine.”

“Bloody hell, it must be the size of a donkey.”

A wailing scream wrenched them from their contemplation. They ran towards it, splashing and slipping in the muck and sour water sprayed up into Sherlock’s face.

There it was, scrambling insanely out of the encroaching tide of wet filth. Long incisors and yellow teeth bared, so it looked like an animated skull with a forming muzzle and burning eyes. Those teeth had ripped a chuck from Davies’ arm and he was crying out for help as his blood sprayed into the dank river. Singh had passed out and lay slumped against the wall.

It was astonishing, a storybook demon made flesh, and fascination drew Sherlock like a magnet heedless of the danger.

“Don’t go near it!” John’s cry was anguished and fearful.

That note of horror stopped Sherlock in his tracks in the instant the creature sprang and died. John’s bullets had done their work well and it didn’t even twitch at his feet. Rat blood and brain splattered the tunnel, and its jaw was frozen in a rabid snarl.

 


	13. Part Two Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rat may have gone, but there's still trouble ahead.

John insisted on examining every inch of Sherlock’s naked body for marks and it wasn’t a sex game either. He was genuinely and badly shaken.

“Are you sure that there’s nothing, not even a scratch?” he asked anxiously. “Rabies can lay dormant for months before the symptoms appear and by then it’s too late.” John shivered. “I saw it in Afghanistan. They brought a young tribesman into the field hospital who’d been bitten by a rabid dog five months before. There was nothing that we could do except try to keep him comfortable and wait for him to die, and it was an awful way to go. Are you sure -”

“Yes, I am.” Sherlock tried not to lose his temper. He hated to be fussed over. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, Christ, I’m making a screw up of this.” John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I think my PTSD is kicking in.” He dropped his hands and glared at Sherlock. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You were in the right place for it.”

John smiled weakly. “It was a good job I’d just had a piss.”

“I don’t think Davies or Singh would have noticed it you hadn’t,” said Sherlock. “I’m proud of you. You probably saved Davies’ life tonight.”

“He lost a lot of blood, but with a transfusion and preventative treatment for the rabies he should be okay.” John’s expression darkened again. “No thanks to me though because he certainly wasn’t my first priority, you were the one that mattered. If he had bled to death while I was shooting that rat to save you I wouldn’t have lost any sleep over it.” John cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Not as long as you were safe.”

Sherlock put his arms around him and they kissed with tenderness rather than passion. He led John across to the sofa and swaddled them both in the plaid blanket. It had started to get light outside but the chill gloom of the night lingered in the room.

“Rabies is fairly rare in rodents,” said John after a time.

“So are rodents that size.”

John hugged him and kissed his temple. “Stuff the rat.”

“I’m sure the taxidermy department of the Natural History Museum will do just that once they’ve finished dissecting it to find out what it was.”

“Well, I’m not going to see it,” said John with feeling. He sighed. “I’m sorry I was a prat earlier.”

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”

John slapped him on the arm. “Not so much of it you, so what do we do next?”

Sherlock considered the variations on that question. What did they do in the next ten minutes? In the next six weeks or with the rest of their lives? The only thing he was certain of was that he needed John in his life and apparently the feeling was mutual, which made no sense at all. John was straight. He ought to live a straight life, one that involved pretty women and bratty children. A life that he could only ever play an insignificant part in; jealousy and apprehension made him tense. People weren’t his thing, but John was – more than – and he was too selfish to nobly give him up. “Do you remember what I told you once? There are no heroes and if there were I wouldn’t be one of them.”

John wriggled round to look at him. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m a self-centred bastard and I want you to stay with me.”

John stared at him for a moment. “Was I ever going to do anything else?” He put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “There are things we need to sort out to establish some ground rules, but not tonight.” He kissed Sherlock on the cheek. “We should get some sleep.”

“Will you have nightmares?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” John looked at the window. “It’s nearly morning anyway.”

Sherlock took the plunge. “It’s hardly worth you going upstairs. We might as well stretch out on my bed for an hour or two.”

“I’d like that,” said John.

*

It was strange to wake up with another human being beside him, but his mobile was ringing insistently and Sherlock didn’t have the chance to analysis the feeling. He glared at the phone. “Damn.”

“What’s-the-matter?” mumbled John. He pushed the duvet down to his waist and looked enquiringly at Sherlock. “Well?”

Sherlock read the text. “The press have got hold of the rat story and will soon materialise on our doorstep, to say nothing of the impact it will have on social media. However, Mycroft could deem it a matter of national security if we were to oblige him by collecting a package.” Sherlock gave the phone to John. “So we either get bombarded by questions about one giant rat or we run errands for another one.”

John chuckled. “You love him really.” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “But we only have to collect this package and deliver it to him?”

“Yes, as soon as possible at the Diogenes club.” Sherlock tapped the phone. “You haven’t read the second half of the message.”

“Bloody hell.” John sat bolt upright. “Sydney, Australia? Is he serious?”

“Always, I’m afraid.”

*

John was sure that it was illegal to masturbate on an airplane, especially in first class. He leant across the seat arm and kept his voice down to a furious hiss. “Stop it, Sherlock, before you get us thrown off the plane.”

Sherlock glared at him. His arm was still moving under the blanket. “No one can see anything, not that it’s anyone else’s business what I do with my penis.” He was louder than John, loud enough to draw attention even if his public masturbation had gone undetected before.  

“Put it away.”   John’s angry whisper went unheeded and he almost grabbed Sherlock’s arm, but an unseemly tussle would draw even more attention. “Just pack it in.”

Muzzy blue eyes focused on his. “Can’t …you know how long it’s been since I…oh, god…”

John could have groaned with another kind of frustration when Sherlock’s activities provoked shocked looks and hostile mutterings from the other passengers. “Then go and wank in the loo like any sane person.” John glared at the thick brown A4 envelope on the table. They were meant to be careful with their consignment. The documents were vital, a matter of national security Mycroft had said. “If you-”

Too late, the high heels of doom sounded in the aisle and there was a stewardess, faintly pink about the ears, but determined to do her job. “Excuse me, Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop doing that.”

Sherlock refused to stop, creating a major uproar. The chief steward and eventually the co-pilot were summoned to remonstrate with him. He insisted that he was doing nothing wrong. “You can’t even see my penis. Can anyone here see my penis?” Sherlock flicked the blanket back for a split second. “Oh, look, there it is.”

John was livid, way beyond embarrassment. He glowered in his seat while the flight diverted to Paris and airport security boarded to frog match them off the plane. Sherlock was still arguing that he’d done nothing wrong.

“He had an erection,” an elderly man, every inch the retired British colonel, informed the security men.

“Of course I had an erection,” declared Sherlock. “Don’t you get an erection when you masturbate? Oh no, of course you don’t, not without one of those little blue pills.”

“Shut up,” yelled John. He had tucked Mycroft’s precious envelope under his arm.

“All right, I ‘m going.” Sherlock pulled away from the security man. “Do you know that your wife’s a lesbian?”

*

John was still fuming when they boarded the Eurostar back to London eight hours later. He claimed the window seat and stared out at the station platform. “I hope that you’re proud of yourself.”

“Should I be?” asked Sherlock innocently.

John rounded on him furiously. “You get us both arrested and interrogated for hours at Charles de Gaulle airport. Nearly causing a major diplomatic incident and when they finally let us go we have to get the bloody train home because none of the airlines will take us.”

“I’m hardly to blame for their provincial thinking.”

“Yes, you are, you’re to blame for everything!” Sherlock’s apparent calm was fuel to John’s fire. “I’ve been all the proxy way to Australia and back running errands for your bloody brother.   Twenty-three hours on the plane, four hours in Sydney airport and then another twenty-three hours back, not including all the fuck-ups. I’m sleep deprived-”

“You were snoring on the plane.”

“Well, at least I didn’t get my knob out in public!” John clenched his fist on his thigh. “What the hell happened to all that ‘I’d never do this with anyone else’ crap?”

Sherlock stared at him in amazement. “You’re jealous.”

“I am not! But I’m damn sure that Mycroft will never ask you to do another courier job for him.”

Sherlock’s face said it all.

“You pathetic bastard.” John’s rage had turned icy cold and there was nothing but contempt in his voice. “You set up this whole charade to put one over on Mycroft and never mind me or that poor sod whose marriage you probably wrecked by telling him that his wife was a lesbian.”

“Well, she is and she was going to leave him anyway, that was obvious from the buttons on his shirt.” Sherlock looked at John almost pityingly. “You just don’t see the obvious because you wander around in a foggy daze with your sad little mind all vacant. God, I’d hate to have a brain like yours.”

For an instant John was too outraged to find his voice then the words spilt out of their own accord. “And I’d hate to be a pitiful, fucked-up, wanker like you. Holier than thou, touch-me-not Sherlock who never got laid in his life.”

Sherlock blanched and swallowed convulsively before he launched his counterattack. “I know exactly what I am and I don’t pretend to be anything else. Not like you, Dr I’m-not-gay Watson. I don’t make believe that I’m straight when I can’t keep my hands off another man.”

“I am straight,” said John slowly and clearly.

“Like hell.” Sherlock stood up. “I’m going to sit somewhere else.” He dropped the brown envelope into John’s lap. “And you can throw these in the bin.” He lowered his voice. “My goodness, you do look confused, so, for the hard of understanding, these papers are worthless fakes, no more genuine than that Ukrainian spy who was pretending to be a British colonel. Everything I did was designed to divert attention from the real courier. Remember, that nice Dutch schoolteacher who was going to visit her grandchildren in London? Now does that explain it all or do you need the Ladybird edition?”

John stared up at him, obviously dumbfounded and Sherlock turned away without waiting for him to formulate a response.

*

It was bad. Very bad. So bad that John didn’t know if they could ever get back from it or even if he wanted to. Yes, he had been an idiot and he ought to have trusted Sherlock, but there again Sherlock should have trusted him. Only he hadn’t, he had let John make a damn fool of himself and then blamed him for it. That was typical of Sherlock, the man was so bloody egocentric it was no wonder that he didn’t want sex with anyone else. Who else could ever live up to his exacting standards? And it was all so one-sided; Sherlock had never shown any interest in giving him a wank. He always had to get himself off because his majesty wouldn’t soil his lily white hands. What kind of bloody relationship was that?

Not that it was meant to be a relationship because he didn’t do men. John groaned, a low keen of despair. His life and his identity were being shredded apart. Straight. He had always been straight and he still fancied women, even though he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

 

 

  


	14. Part Two Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the boys have to kiss and make up...

Sherlock was halfway down the stairs when the front door opened. He froze in the act of pulling his jacket on. His right arm was twisted behind him, held immobile by his sleeve, but he barely noticed the throb of pain in his shoulder. “I was coming to look for you.”

“No need.” John closed the door and shot the bolt home. “If the phone rings we ignore it.”

“The same thing applies if the house catches fire.” Sherlock’s smile was as lopsided as his see-sawing emotions.

“Best not, Mrs Hudson will murder us.” There was a world of warmth in John’s face.

“Let her,” said Sherlock as reckless as ever.

John laughed. “I’ve missed you,” he said seriously.

“It’s only been two days.” Sherlock held the bannister. He felt dizzy, that was what not eating and not sleeping did for you. “Two days too long.”

“There are things we should talk about,” said John, “but none of them matter now.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock feasted his eyes on John. Blue jeans and white open-necked shirt. It was far too hot for jumpers, even the shirt carried a not unattractive hint of sweat coupled with the distinctive smell of the London underground. “Couldn’t you get a taxi?”

“I couldn’t afford one,” said John honestly. “I’m going to walk next time though, it was like a bloody sweat box down there.” He lifted his right arm up and sniffed. “I’m not very nice to be near.”

“You won’t catch me complaining.”

“That’ll be a novelty.”

Sherlock slung his jacket over the bannister and held his hand out to John. “Come upstairs and I’ll run you a bath.”

“Shower, I’d boil in a bath.” John pointed at Sherlock’s jacket. “You won’t need that either.”

“One has to maintain one’s standards. You should see Mycroft, he’s still going round in his usual three piece suit.”

John’s eyes drank Sherlock in. “I’d rather see you in your birthday suit.”

“There’s room for us both in the shower.”   Sherlock waited for John to ascend the stairs. They met halfway and kissed one another locked in a close embrace. More swaying butterfly kisses followed and when there wasn’t an inch of John’s face that Sherlock’s tongue hadn’t touched he led him up to the bathroom.

“Do I need to say that I’m sorry?” asked John while they undressed.

Sherlock paused in the act of folding his shirt. “Only if I do.”

“Let’s call it quits then.” John turned the shower on. “Come here.”

He had set the shower to warm so that it cascaded over them like a sun kissed fountain. It was odourless, a wet nothing that drenched Sherlock’s hair and ran into his eyes. John was undeceived. He wiped away Sherlock’s tears and smiled with eyes that were too bright.

They took turns to wash one another between gentle kisses. John ran wet hands down Sherlock’s spine and into the small of his back. “Do want your bum washed?”

Sherlock giggled in a mouthful of shower water. He trusted John and this crowded in intimacy felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” John kissed the top of his shoulder blade and cupped his buttocks in his hands. The soap made his grip slippery, an easy scented glide of skin over skin. John squeezed and laughed when Sherlock murmured. He held his hips. “Well, Mr Cock isn’t complaining.”

Sherlock’s head fell back. “He isn’t that stupid.”

John pulled him closer. “I wondered if you’d say to hell with it after that bust up we had.”

“I just…I wasn’t in the mood for wanking.” Sherlock turned around. “I missed you, John.”

“So I see.” A finger traced the length of his erection, but John’s gaze was loving despite the tease. “Is it time to get reacquainted?”

The idea sent a little spasm through Sherlock, but he shook his head. “I’m supposed to be washing you.”

“I’m easy either way,” said John. He kissed Sherlock’s hand. “Wash the bits you feel comfortable with and leave the rest for another day.”

“What if I want to wash all of you?” whispered Sherlock.

“Then it’s my lucky day.”

The shower gel, black mint for men, wasn’t Sherlock’s favourite. It puddled chemically green in his hand and a strong spearmint scent filled the air. He ran his lathered up hands through John’s hair. “You got the wrong shower gel again.”

John tipped his head back into the scalp massage. “That stuff you like is thirteen quid a bottle.”

Sherlock stored that comment away with the one about John not being able to afford a taxi. “This will do for now.” John’s hair felt silky soft as he wove his fingers through the wet strands. It was only that he wasn’t keen on a mint favoured John. “Rinse.”

John obediently bent forward to duck his head under the shower and his arse touched Sherlock’s upper thighs and groin. The contact sent a pulse of lust along his nerves. Yet he found that unturned bum more amusing than arousing. Bottoms had never really been his thing, then neither had people until John came along.

“Is that rinsed enough for you?” John straightened up and shook himself like a wet dog.

Sherlock wiped the mint scented water out of his eyes. “You’ll do.”   He used the shower gel sparingly, swiping the modest lather over John’s shoulders, back and biceps. John’s chest hair was a shade fairer than that on his head even darkened by the gush of the shower, as was his pubic hair. “Were you a blonde baby?”

John pulled his face. “Yes, with curls if you must know.”

“Oh, I want to know everything about you.” He nuzzled John’s wet shoulder and was rewarded with a little intake of breath. “Turn that way.”

John moved like a perfect marionette to his guiding touch. Face to face Sherlock ran the back of his finger over John’s cheek. “I want to see a photograph, after all you’ve got one of me.”   He ran his hands over John’s chest again and smiled in tender triumph when John’s eyes closed.   “Photo?”

“Whatever,” murmured John and Sherlock decided that constituted agreement. He watched his wet hands move lower over diaphragm and abdomen. John pushed his hips forward and Sherlock was anxiously aware of his own inexperience. He fumbled for the shower gel to cover his attack of nerves. “We need a bit more lather.” It glopped into his hand. John’s cock was about to be turned into a stick of spearmint rock. Sherlock giggled.

“What’s so funny?” John blinked the water out of his eyes.

“Nothing.” Sherlock rubbed his soapy hand over John’s pubic hair, circling the root of his cock without touching it. The action drew a sigh from John nevertheless and Sherlock closed his hand around the base of his erection. Both it and his own cock twitched eagerly and there was the other fear. What if lost control of himself when John came? Sexual excitement burnt strongly beneath his anxieties, hardly surprising after days of denial. Yet he didn’t want it to end here because it had become so much more than a foolhardy wager. It was an adventure, a journey, a silken thread that bound them together in a shared conspiracy.

“More,” said John. He shoved his hips up hard and his erection was an insistent, demanding thing.

Sherlock smeared soapy mint all over him, caressing cock and balls with slick deft hands. It felt strange, different and yet utterly familiar. Like touching himself and yet not the same, just as the inpatient noises John made were so similar to his own lust driven cries.

“Will you…be okay if I get off?” Yes, was obviously the answer John wanted. His eyes were all pupil and his chest heaved with every breath.

“I think so.” It would bring him dangerously close to coming, if he could actually manage get John off without making a hash of it.

“Thank Christ for that!” John lust filled face gentled. “Don’t look so scared.” He slid his own hand down into the minty suds and grasped his cock. “Just put your hand over mine, together, okay?”

“All right.” Sherlock was relieved not to have to make the decision. He could feel the ridges of John’s knuckles under his hand. There was a graze on one that chaffed with the rapid movement. It would rub into a tiny tear of blood, not that John cared. His eyes were clenched shut and his muscles trembled. Faster still and the scent of arousal overlaid the mint and his gasps were audible over the gush of the shower. The edge of Sherlock’s hand was impacted by water and then it glanced off John’s cock. And again as the urgent motion was repeated.

“Sherlock!” Semen spurted from John, hard enough to pattern Sherlock’s stomach and thighs. He might have lost control in that instant, but John grabbed his forearms for support and he was too enraptured by him to even think of himself.

*

They lay on the floor in the living room, naked with cushions under their heads, because it was both too humid and too early for bed.

Bed would be an issue, Sherlock supposed, because he still wasn’t sure that he wanted to share his on a permanent basis. This was nice though, being close to John who dozed in the warm wake of his orgasm. Something akin to envy beset Sherlock. His arousal level had lessened but he was far from sated and he fought the urge to masturbate although a brief wank wouldn’t do any harm if he was careful.

John yawned. “I’m not asleep.”

“You nearly are.” Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s damp hair.

“You almost came when I did.” John rolled onto his back. “I should stop doing it front of you, it isn’t fair.”

Sherlock noted that John wasn’t proposing an end to the game. So he too understood that it had become an integral part of this sea-change which had happened between them. “I love watching you come and it does excite me unbearably.” Sherlock mused over this own responses. “It doesn’t take much to get me going now, but the urge ebbs and flows. At present I can handle you coming as long as I’m not right on the edge.”

“Just tell when it gets to be too much for you then and I’ll rub one out in the loo.” John turned back to face him. “There’s something else that I want to talk to you about.”

“Which is?”

“We’ve been running around like blue arsed flies these past few weeks, Kent, Hastings, Paris and Brussels, Hull and York, not to mention Sydney, and after all that rushing about I could use a holiday.”

“You want us to go travelling because we’ve been travelling so much?” asked Sherlock. Sometimes he didn’t know where John got his logic from.

“Okay, so it sounds odd if you put it like that, but think about it. We could get out of London before the whole place dissolves in the heat and we wouldn’t have to lock the doors just in case Mrs Hudson comes in. You've got another thirteen days to go. Wouldn’t it make it much more interesting if we went somewhere private where you could wank to your heart’s content?”

Put like that John’s mad logic had its merits. “Where were you thinking of?”

John hesitated and a hint of uncertainty coloured his expression. “I could think of a lot of places that I can’t afford because the truth is I’m pretty broke at the minute. I’m going to have to look for some locum work in the autumn. Anyway, that got me thinking, you’re the proud owner of a big secluded country house not an hour from London and that wouldn’t cost us anything.”

“No.” The reaction was immediate and not thought out. “Why the blazes would you want to go there?”

“I told you why.” John looked both crestfallen and determined. “At least think about it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock thought that the obvious solution was for him to pay for John’s holiday somewhere else – anywhere else – in the world. Only John was too proud to accept a hand out from him and he didn’t want to damage their fledgling relationship by insisting. “Do you actually like the house at Hambledon?”

“Yes, well apart from the lilacs.”

“What’s wrong with the lilacs?”

John shrugged sheepishly. “My mum always said they were unlucky.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” They laughed and Sherlock kissed away John’s embarrassment. Then he settled back with his head on John’s bare shoulder. It would be nice to have John all to himself for a couple of weeks and the house was his to do with as he pleased. Not hers, not grandmamma’s, because she was gone forever. “They’re just trees and childhood memories are just that, ghosts of a past that no longer exists.” He raised his head to smile down at John. “We can get the train down there this afternoon.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting two chapters today as a busy week ahead means I might not be able to post anything for a few days. Chapter 14 also concludes part two, part three to follow.


	15. Part Three Unity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A text, a journey to the country and a secret to be shared.

John had never seen Sherlock go that shade of red before, not that he ever remembered seeing him blush at all. “What the hell’s in that text?”

Sherlock glared at him across the train table. “Nothing, it’s just Mycroft being an idiot.”

“That doesn’t normally make you blush.”

“I am not blushing.”

“Yes, you are and I want to know why.” John was in a playful mood. He made a dive for Sherlock’s phone and with surprise on his side he managed to wrestle it out of his hand.

“Give that to me,” demanded Sherlock in a furious whisper.

“Nope.” John sat back on the blue and brown plaid seat well out of arm’s reach. He also ignored the curious glances from the people at the table opposite. They were on holiday and there was no law against two men in their thirties behaving like a couple of giggly teenagers.

“John-”

“Too late.” He read Mycroft’s text. ‘Gardener advised not to attend until further notice. Don’t get splinters.’ ” When he looked at Sherlock he saw annoyance and uncharacteristic embarrassment in his face. John chuckled. “This has got to be good even if I can’t make head or tail of it. What’s all this about a gardener?”

Sherlock gave him and the phone a sour look. “I told Mycroft to cancel the gardener while we were at the house in case he turned up at an awkward moment.”

“That makes sense.” John read the message over to himself. “But what’s this ‘don’t get splinters’ bit about?”

“Mycroft wasn’t supposed to know about that.” Sherlock coloured up again, but he looked hurt as well.  “Don’t ask what he wasn’t supposed to know because I’m NOT discussing it in public.”

And that was from a man who wasn’t entirely averse to masturbating in public. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t,” said Sherlock sadly.

John was instantly ready to do battle with Mycroft or anyone else who had, but he wasn’t going to hear the rest of this story until Sherlock was ready to tell it. So there was nothing he could do except give the nosy parkers opposite something else to gossip about. He reached across the table and took Sherlock’s hand.

*

Sherlock’s house had been built into a natural hollow in the landscape. A long garden ran down from the lane to the front door and they reached the halfway point before John got a complete view of the house. The roof tiles were redder than he remembered and the brickwork was of a deeper orangey hue. While the afternoon sun made the white wall that divided the house from the garden sparkle as if it contained specks of diamond. The brilliance was offset by the abundance of greenery that softened the angles of brick and tile.

The sun scorched the back of John’s neck. “God, it’s hot.”

“It’s not as bad as London though,” said Sherlock. “I used to come here every summer when I was a boy and it was always three or four degrees cooler than the city. You’ll have to hope that we have a storm, it’s magnificent over the open fields.”

“That sounds good to me.” John was parched. “I wouldn’t say no to a drink either.”

“Let’s get you one then.”

The house was spacious and elegant, but it wasn’t a mansion so the grand tour was soon completed. On the ground floor they chose the sitting room with the black iron stove as their crashing out, lazing about, space instead of the more formal dining room or the book lined study. There were three bedrooms upstairs. Sherlock claimed the one that overlooked the rear garden and John chose the cosy one at the front. The third bedroom, bigger than the other two put together, also overlooked the front garden and they agreed to share it whenever they felt so inclined.

“Did your grandmother…” John waved his hand at the pristine white bed.

“No, in hospital in Godalming.” Sherlock pressed his knuckles to his lips. “She wouldn’t have wanted to leave, not after over seventy years. They should have let her stay here.”

“Most patients want to die at home.” John put his arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“The care workers didn’t want to take the responsibility. Mycroft was unreachable and needless to say I wasn’t even in the picture.”

“If coming here was a mistake we can get the next train back to London,” offered John.

Sherlock looked at him instead of at the empty bed. “I don’t want to go back yet. Grandmamma’s dead and I won’t let pointless regrets drive me away.” He laughed quietly and drew John into his arms. “This is my house now and we can do whatever the fuck we want.”

*

John wondered if it was sacrilege to put ice into fairly expensive wine. He hefted the bottle in his hand, holding it up for Sherlock to see. “Is it okay if I open this?”

“Open what you like, you don’t have to keep asking.” Sherlock hadn’t even spared the bottle a glance. He was all on edge and not just in the sexual sense either.

Overtired, John decided, and overemotional as well as overstimulated. Sherlock even kept getting distracted from his masturbation marathon. Not when his cock was actually in his hand, then the focus was there and John got a couple of minute’s peace and quiet if he discounted the moans. It was the in-between times when Sherlock had to stop that it got really lairy and there had been a lot of those this evening.

The heat didn’t help, even with the back door and all the windows open the humidity was still cloying. John felt as if he’d been wrapped in tinfoil and steamed. “It’s a shame you didn’t inherit a house with a swimming pool.”

“Grandmamma wasn’t that grand for all her pretensions.” Sherlock stood naked in the open doorway. He pointed at black outlines of the hills beyond the wood. “There’s a country estate for sale over there, nine bedrooms, two hundred acres and an indoor swimming pool, will that do you?”

John found the corkscrew and set about playing hunt the wine glasses. “How much?”

“Fifteen million. The glasses are in the top cupboard.”

John looked around the white and walnut kitchen. “Which top cupboard?”

Sherlock tutted impatiently and strode over to the cupboard above the Belfast sink with his bare feet slapping on the tiles. “Glasses.”

“Thanks.” John stepped around him and selected two. “I think fifteen million’s out of my price range.”

Sherlock gave him a quick flash of a smile. “You’ll have to slum it here with me then, won’t you?”

“Yeah, it looks like I’m stuck with you.” John put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Are you okay? You’ve been a bit erratic tonight.” And that was an understatement.

“So would you be if you hadn’t had an orgasm for seventeen days.” Sherlock gave his cock a quick squeeze. “It’s so sensitive I can barely touch it.” He gripped his thigh, hard enough for John to see the imprints of his fingernails redden the white skin. His gaze swept around the room and he sighed wearily. “This house fucks everything up.”

“Maybe that’s your real problem,” suggested John.

“I said I wanted to stay,” declared Sherlock. “It’s too bloody hot in there though. Bring the glasses outside.”

John frowned. This wasn’t normal behaviour even for Sherlock, but it had only been a few weeks since his grandmother died and grief affected people in funny ways. It had been a bad idea to come here, his bad idea, which would explain the headache and the guilt. The last thing he had wanted was to rip Sherlock’s old wounds open and that was exactly what this so-called holiday had done. First train back in the morning then.

“John?”

“On my way.” John found an ice bucket and filled it with round chunks of ice from the freezer. The cold, wet burn on his fingers was almost pleasant in the stifling air. He gathered everything up and headed out on the terrace.

Sherlock sat with his back to him. The first thing he saw was the long line of his slender back, moon pale in the darkness, untouched by the spill of light from the kitchen; strong shoulders, the right a tad out of alignment with the left, and a ridged spine that led John’s eyes down to the cleft of his buttocks.  

Fucking beautiful. Good enough to eat.

He shouldn’t be thinking like that because that simply wasn’t on his radar. Not now. Not ever.

“Here we go.” John sat at the top of the steps beside Sherlock. The stone was wonderfully cold on his bare legs and he could even feel the coolness through his shorts. He dispensed glasses half filled with ice and topped up with white wine. They wouldn’t get drunk that way and Sherlock was enough of a handful sober. John leant back on his elbows and tipped his head back. “There are so many more stars here than in London.”

“There’s less light pollution.”

“I know that.” John sat up again and put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. There was a little round mole on the left one that John hadn’t spotted from a distance. He kissed it and nuzzled Sherlock’s neck. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Sherlock pulled away from him. “Don’t cling, you know that I don’t like people all over me!” He dropped his head into his hands. “Sorry, sometimes it’s just so difficult to know who to trust.”

“You can trust me.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Your grandmother.” It wasn’t a question, John knew that miserable old witch had to be at the back of all this.

“I don’t want to talk about her or about what happened because it was humiliating and stupid, and Mycroft wasn’t supposed to know…”

“Perhaps he found out, Mycroft can be very astute.” John still hadn’t got a clue what they were talking about, but he could see how distressed Sherlock was.

“Astute not omnipotent.” Sherlock turned desolate eyes upon him. “He knew because grandmamma told him, probably over tea and scones on this very terrace, and I’m sure that they both found it terribly amusing.”

John made the connection. “This has something to do with that text he sent you, with that ‘don’t get splinters’ business you were so embarrassed about on the train.” He put his hand on Sherlock’s right knee and wasn’t rebuffed. “You said that you wouldn’t talk about it in public and we couldn’t get much more private than this.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and John was shocked to see dewdrop tears form on his lashes. “I don’t want to talk about it at all. I just want to wank myself into oblivion and forget about the entire, trivial, pathetic incident, but it won’t stay out of my head. Every time I see those… You’ll laugh when you know what I did.”

“No, I won’t. I might murder your brother, but I won’t laugh at you.”

“Join the queue.” Sherlock covered John’s hand with his. “Your lilacs were unlucky for me, John.”

“What happened here all those years ago?” John turned his hand around on Sherlock’s knee so that their fingers interlaced. Sherlock’s hand was warm and moist, and he felt the pulse in his wrist jump anxiously. “Come on, tell.”

“I told you that I used to spend part of the summer here every year whilst I was growing up. By the time I was a teenager Mycroft had gone off to university and it was just grandmamma and I. That didn’t bother me. I enjoyed the solitude, the freedom from rules and regulations. Grandmamma didn’t care what time I ate or went to bed or even if I bothered to do either.” Sherlock’s gaze was distant and then he blinked at John. “I loved it here. There’s a gazebo down beyond the lilacs that you haven’t seen yet. I used to disappear down there for hours with my books and by violin. I would read and doze under the trees and I’m sure you can guess what else I did out of sight of the house.”

“I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes, do I?” John touched Sherlock’s face. “Did she catch you wanking? Is that what all this is about?”

“Not exactly.” A rueful trace of a smile touched Sherlock’s lip. “I wish it had been that simple. When I was sixteen I was curious about everything – sexually curious – and I used to test things out with my cock. How did the grass feel on it or the stone seat of the gazebo, and…there was a hole in the trunk of a lilac tree at just the right height.”

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed John before he could stop himself. “You mean she caught you fucking a tree?”

“Not her, the gardener.” Even in the darkness John could tell that Sherlock had gone red again. “I didn’t hear him at first. I was very excited and it was mortifying…totally humiliating… to be caught in that position.”

Now everything made sense and it was a relief to know that it wasn’t anything worse. John bit his lip to stop it twitching. “What happened then?”

“The gardener was an elderly man and very disapproving of my self-abuse. He felt it was his Christian duty to inform grandmamma. I could have died, but she didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Boys will be boys,’ she said. She promised the gardener that she would deal with me and persuaded him to keep quiet about the incident. When he’d gone I…I broke down and cried like a child in her arms. Grandmamma wiped away my tears and we had a long and very frank talk.” A glimmer of humour lightened Sherlock’s features. “She was unshockable. Even when I told her that I preferred boys to girls, but that I wasn’t sure that I would ever want anyone else, that I was happy with my own right hand.”

“My gran would’ve had a heart attack if I’d ever spoken to her like that,” said John.

“Mine promised not to tell anyone, not even my parents and I trusted her.” Sherlock opened his empty hands. “Even after the parting of the ways I always thought that she’d kept my confidence because she promised that she would.” His expression was bitter and self-mocking. “You never knew that I was that gullible, did you?”

“Not gullible.” John cradled Sherlock’s head in his hands. “Just young and naïve.” He gave Sherlock a gentle shake. “I’d bury the old cow if she wasn’t already six feet under.”

Sherlock gazed into John’s face. “You mean that,” he said wonderingly. Faint colour infused his cheeks again. “One more confession then, when that gardener found me I was having an orgasm.”

John kissed his lips. “I told you those lilacs were unlucky.”

 


	16. Part Three Unity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sexy romantic interlude in the garden, but the path of true love never runs smooth.

Sherlock seemed genuinely amused by that. “We make our own luck,” he told John, “and, yes, that was another of her sayings.”

John glanced back at the house and down the garden to where the lilacs stood stock still in the airless night. “Well, she did all right for herself.” He gave Sherlock a playful shove. “Even if you haven’t got a swimming pool.”

“Grandmamma used to get her housekeeper to put a paddling pool out on the lawn for Mycroft and I when we were little.” Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his steepled hands. “She shouldn’t have told him, John.”

“No, she shouldn’t have.” John bit his tongue. His gran had always said ‘don’t speak ill of the dead’ and trashing Sherlock’s once adored grandmother wouldn’t help.

Sherlock smiled as if he could read John’s thoughts. “What would you call her, untrustworthy, malicious, perhaps even vindictive?”

“Only if I was in a charitable mood, otherwise I can think of a few choice variations on evil old cow.”

They giggled and John clasped the hand Sherlock held out to him. Their kisses were fluid and natural, deepening into passion when Sherlock dragged John down beside him on the terrace. A sharp stone corner scraped John’s hip when he turned onto his side and he swore under his breath.

“The grass is softer,” said Sherlock. He was on his feet in an instant with his hand extended to John once again. Before he let Sherlock pull him up from the terrace John leant forward to kiss his flat stomach. He rested his head on Sherlock’s hot skin and closed his eyes when a gentle hand carded through his hair. John splayed his fingers across Sherlock’s thigh. His lips were just a few inches from that lovely semi-erect cock. What would Sherlock say if he offered to kiss it again, even to suck it?

Sherlock took a step back. “Let’s lie down.”

“If that’s what you want.” John’s disappointment was sharpened by the awareness that Sherlock had known what was on the tip of his tongue, as it were.

Sherlock index finger moved across John’s face from brow to lips. “Perhaps one day.”

“That’s okay.” He let Sherlock haul him to his feet. It ought to have been fine because he had always preferred to be on the receiving end when it came to blow jobs, but the regret remained. John wasn’t going to let it spoil what they had though. He held both Sherlock’s hands in his. “Anytime, well, anytime there’s not football on the telly and now you’ll go and ask in the middle of the FA cup final.”

“That isn’t until next May.” Sherlock’s lips touched his ear. “I might ask long before that.” He turned towards the starlit garden. “The lilacs will be in bloom again by then.”

“We won’t be here to see them if you sell the house.”

Sherlock led him down onto the lawn without replying. The grass was faintly moist and blessedly fresh when they stretched out on it. John rubbed his feet across the soft edged blades and felt a peddle snag on his ankle. He rolled over with a frustrated sigh. “I forgot the bloody wine.”

By the time he had gathered up his bounty Sherlock had moved under the canopy of a tree. It wasn’t a lilac, but John neither knew nor cared what it was. He could recognise grass and roses, other than that the colourful things were flowers, the spiky things were bushes and the tall ones were trees. What he did know was that Sherlock, seated Indian fashion under that tree looked like a pagan fertility god especially when he began to fondle himself.

John knelt beside him and Sherlock let go of his penis to curl his arm around John’s neck. “You didn’t ask me for the details,” he whispered into John’s ear.

“What details?”

“Of my liaison with the lilac tree.”

So that was the game they were playing, was it? If Sherlock had got over his anger and embarrassment enough to make a sex game out of the incident John wasn’t about to stop him. “You had better tell me everything then.”   He tucked Sherlock’s right arm comfortably around his waist and clasped his left hand. “No touching though, we don’t want any accidents.”

“Bastard.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. “As I told you I used to go down under the shelter of the lilacs to wank. On that particular morning I was frustrated and impatient all through breakfast. Usually I got off in the bathroom first thing, but I’d overslept and my cock was begging for it.” He wriggled against the tree trunk. “I could deny myself then the way I do now. Although I did try to hold back sometimes, not very successfully I admit.”

“It doesn’t sound like you tried too hard that day,” observed John drily.

“I didn’t. The moment I could I grabbed a couple of books to make it look innocent and headed for the bottom of the garden. My cock was rubbing against my jeans and I shoved my hand down them halfway there, praying that no one could see me from the house. It was so ready I could have stopped in my tracks and rubbed one out right there.” Sherlock paused for breath. His chest was flushed and his cock stood up straight between his thighs. “I need a rub now, just a bit of one.”

“Later, if you’re good,” said John.

“Oh hell…I took my jeans off the second I reached the trees. I’d already started to precum and it wouldn’t have taken me two minutes to bring myself off. Only I’d seen that prefect hole in the lilac before, I’d fantasied about it and even rubbed myself over it with my jeans on, but I’d never dared go the whole way. Somehow it seemed worse than wanking or humping the grass; a perversion that would get me into far more trouble if I was caught.” Sherlock turned to gaze at John with barely focused eyes. “God, I want to wank. Not that I had – have – a thing about trees, no more than I have about that plastic duck you bought or any of the other things we’ve played with. I simply like all the different sensations they provide.” He blinked. “Where did you put the toys?”

“In the top drawer in the master bedroom.”

“Good. So there I was naked from the waist down with my cock ready to burst if I didn’t come soon and there was that tempting hole right in front of me. I wanted to know what it felt like to fuck something, but I was terrified of being discovered with my cock stuck in a tree.” Sherlock chuckled. “And splinters were a consideration as well, the idea of explaining how I’d got them in my cock to some po-faced doctor in A&E made me squirm.”

“Believe me I’ve heard worse.” John saw Sherlock’s enquiring look. “Not now, I’ll tell you another time. Right now I want to know all about your morning wood.”

“That’s a dreadful pun.” Sherlock arched his spine. “Give me a little rub.”

“Not yet.” John longed to though and he was very aroused, enthralled by Sherlock’s silly, erotic misdeeds. “Not until I’ve heard the end of your story.”

“There isn’t much more to say, my heart was hammering nineteen to the dozen with nerves and lust. I had that congested ache in my balls that you get when you desperately need to come and my cock was leaking all over the place. So I locked my arms around the tree trunk and slid it in. It felt odd and silly, but once I started to thrust with that smooth edge of wood rubbing the underside of my cock there was no holding back.” Sherlock pulled his hand out of John’s and pushed his hair back off his forehead. “You know the rest, all the bad stuff.”

“Don’t think about the bad stuff.” John held the back of Sherlock’s neck and gave him a little shake. “Worse thing I ever did was get caught behind the school gym with my hand in Susie Reynolds’s knickers, trust you to go one better.”

“At least ten better I’d say.” There was a twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes. He stretched and exhaled with a gushy sigh. “God, I’m so hard.” His hand flicked over the head of his cock. “It wouldn’t take a lot to make me come, a few fast strokes would be enough.”  

John seized Sherlock’s hand an split second before he started to pump himself. “In that case you’d better not risk it.” He was breathing heavily and his erection had tented out his shorts. Did Sherlock think that he was the only one who wanted to get off here?   “If I’ve got to hold out then you can as well.”

Sherlock pouted, looking sulky. “You got off this morning, I haven’t come for over a fortnight.” He drummed his heels on the ground. “Twenty days, John. I haven’t had an orgasm for twenty days.”

“Well, you’re not having one tonight.” John gentled his statement with a caress. After the first instinctive attempt Sherlock hadn’t tried to pull out of his grasp. He would whine and groan. He might even beg if John pushed him far enough, but he wanted this torment to continue. Otherwise he would have ended it, either with their safe word or simply by bringing himself off in defiance of John’s edict.   John tapped Sherlock on the nose. “You’re not going to let Mr Cock have his own way, are you?”

“He wants it so much…” Sherlock snagged his lower lip between his teeth. “Oh, please…”

“You need to cool down and Dr Watson has the ideal remedy for you.” John kissed him lightly. “Move round so that you’ve got your back to me.”

“What are you going to do?” The question was born out of curiosity rather than suspicion and a light gleamed in Sherlock’s eyes as the answer came to him. “I shall sue you for medical negligence if I get pneumonia.”

“Don’t bother, I’m broke.” John waited while Sherlock wriggled into position. He placed his hands on his shoulders and laid a trail of kisses from one to the other.

“That is not cooling me down.” Sherlock giggled when John nuzzled the back of his neck. “Quite the opposite in fact.” He leant back with his hands clenched in the grass.

Even in semi-darkness John could see the corded muscles in his arms and there was a faint tremor there too. He knelt up behind Sherlock with the scent of crushed grass and unknown flowers in his nostrils. The ice had melted in the glass and he took a swallow of watered down wine before he passed it to Sherlock. “Have a swig of this first.”

“Thanks.”

John watched Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he drained the glass. When he passed it back again John refilled it with a clank of ice cubes. It was deliciously cold in his hand and slippery with the dewdrops of moisture that formed on the outside of the glass. John smirked and pressed the glass against Sherlock’s upper spine. The resulting yelp made him fall about laughing.

“You knew it was going to happen,” giggled John, not in the least flustered by Sherlock’s daggers drawn look. “Isn’t it cold enough for you?”

“It’s freezing,” snapped Sherlock, but he didn’t move away.

“I’m meant to be cooling your ardour, aren’t I?” John rolled the glass across Sherlock’s back between his shoulder blades. “How’s that?”

“Cold,” whispered Sherlock and his eyes fluttered closed.

John ran the glass over his arms and shoulders. Then he moved around to the front so that he could roll it over Sherlock’s collar bones and hold it to the racing pulse in his neck. “Like that, do you?” John lowered his head to claim a kiss and then he slipped a chip of melting ice between Sherlock’s parted lips. He had his full attention now and Sherlock’s gaze was fixed on him, all smoky with desire.

“Christ, but you’re sexy.” John’s voice was rough with emotion and this certainly wasn’t doing anything to cool his own ardour. He let his free hand follow in the wake of the glass over the planes of Sherlock’s chest. The texture of dampened skin under his fingers increased his arousal and he squirmed without a free hand to rescue his cock from its confinement.

“Take your shorts off,” whispered Sherlock, “but I won’t be able to stand it if you come.”

That was another kind of cold, a spasm of discontent that marred John’s pleasure. He gripped the waistband and shoved his shorts down. It was instantly cooler and he was grateful for the freedom from the confining material.

“Better?” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” replied John because it was, for now at least. He took the opportunity to top up the melting ice and then sparked by a devilish desire for revenge he held it flat against Sherlock’s right nipple. Another undignified yell cut into the night as Sherlock jumped, almost causing John to lose his grip on the wet glass.

“I thought you once told me that you weren’t that sensitive there?” John repeated the action on the other nipple, but this time Sherlock was forewarned and he compressed his lips firmly. “You’ve got goose bumps.” That was something Sherlock couldn’t prevent and John trailed his fingers over the bumps on his left arm. He rolled the glass over the corresponding nipple and the iced water splashed out. John saw Sherlock shiver as it ran wetly down his chest. “Feeling a bit nippy are we?”

“Is that meant to be another of your appallingly bad puns?”

“Maybe.” John tweaked the hard bud of flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He had been refused once tonight, so he decided not to give Sherlock time to write a monograph on the subject. Instead he bent forward and flicked his tongue across Sherlock’s right nipple. There was a sharp intake of breath above him so he kissed it and then took it carefully between his teeth.

Everything became strangely surreal after that; Sherlock cradled the back of his head and his gasps became near whimpers. John smiled around the nipple in his mouth. He knew how to suck a tit all right, only this wasn’t one and it suddenly felt all wrong. There was flat muscle where there ought to have been a full roundness and he yearned for a woman’s breast.   John pulled away acutely aware of the queasy, nervous feeling in his stomach. Yet he was still fully erect, which was bloody ridiculous given his unexpected reaction.

“John?” Sherlock’s whimper was one of loss.

“You were enjoying that too much.” John wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Let’s try something else.”

Sherlock looked right at him, right through the ruse. “Let’s call it a night.”

There it was his get out of jail free card. Anger gripped him, irrational and absurd. Why the hell did Sherlock have to look at him like that, so clear-sighted with all the hurt hidden inside. “Why don’t we?” John slammed the glass down and the damn thing didn’t even have the decency to break.

Sherlock stood up and stalked back into the house.

“Fuck it!” John seized the glass and hurled it onto the terrace where it splintered into shards of light and ice.

It didn’t make him feel any better. There was nothing for him in this so-called relationship except a joyless solitary wank in his single bed. That selfish git was the one who got all the attention. Sherlock thought that the whole bloody universe revolved around him and his stupid sex games with everything arranged to his specifications.

John slumped down on the edge of the terrace. He ought to pack his bags and leave here in the morning. Leave everything. Leave Sherlock – who had shared secrets with him that he had never entrusted to anyone else. God, the man was a mess, but he was his mess.

His.

That felt right, like two halves of a perfect puzzle fitting together.

Which made no sense at all.

For the first time in his life John wished wholeheartedly that he was gay. It would have made everything so much simpler, not that anything was ever simple when it involved Sherlock. Even his own emotions were a churning tangle of anger, guilt, self-doubt and sadness. If he had been forced to pick one word to describe his present state of mind it would have been confused.

He couldn’t mope on the terrace all night though. For one thing the temperature had finally begun to drop and his balls were getting cold. John smiled ruefully. It was time to find Sherlock; time to see if they could make some sense of this unconventional love affair of theirs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sexy romantic interlude in the garden, but the path of true love never runs smooth.


	17. Part Three Unity

Sherlock paced around the living room, too agitated to stay still, sexually frustrated and frustrated with his emotions. Frustrated that he had emotions. After nearly three weeks of denial he ought to be obsessed with wanking and consumed by the overwhelming need to come.  

Instead he was preoccupied by a storm of unwanted feelings; rage, exasperation, and deep hurt among them. John couldn’t expect him to be like other people, indulging in oral sex on a whim. John shouldn’t freak out just because he didn’t have breasts. John shouldn’t – John. John. John. Why the devil was he obsessed with John Watson?

That was a ludicrous answer. One that he wasn’t even prepared to consider.

Love was nothing more than a chemical reaction wrapped up in sentiment.

“I think we lost our way out there,” said John.

Sherlock scowled at him. “You lost your way.” Unless this was where John decided that he had found it again, where he declared that he was strictly heterosexual and that this whole thing had been a ghastly mistake. Not that he cared. He was better off on his own.

“Then you had better help me find it again.” John came towards him with his hands outstretched. “We’ve got to find a way to make this work for both of us.”

It was most certainly not relief that weakened his knees. Sherlock grabbed John’s hands, but he was already foundering. “What if I don’t know how?”

“Then we’re both in the shit.” John’s amusement was replaced by a pensive expression. “Why is it that I can be mad as hell at you one minute and joking the next? You do my bloody head in. In fact half the time I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my arse and I don’t like it, Sherlock. This isn’t just about when I get off, although I’ll get back to that one. I’m not even sure who the fuck I am anymore.”

“You’re John Watson. My John Watson.”

“That’s the trouble, I shouldn’t be because I’m not gay! All the things I do with you, all the feelings I have for you shouldn’t be happening.” John’s distress was would have been obvious to someone far less observant than Sherlock. “I like women. I like tits. They turn me on, but so do you and what the hell does that make me?”

“Bisexual?” suggested Sherlock gently. “You didn’t seem to mind when Lestrade assumed that you were bi.”

John released his hands. “I didn’t object to it being used as a label if it made life simpler all round. It didn’t trouble me then because I was sure that it was a mistake, an easy tag for a complex relationship, but I’m not sure of anything right now.”

And people thought that he was impossible? Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder, anchoring him with a touch. “So you don’t object to people thinking that you’re bisexual, only to the possibility that you might actually be bisexual?”

“Something like that.” Bewilderment creased John’s brow. “Harry knew she was gay at the age of fourteen and our parents gave her hell for it. So how could I be attracted to men and never notice it, never experience it?”

“Until you met me.” Sherlock couldn’t keep the smugness out of his voice.

“Arrogant git.” John turned aside with a heartfelt sigh. He sat down wearily on the sofa and looked across the room at Sherlock with sad eyes. “Is it just me who’s having a crisis here? Doesn’t any of this bother you? How many times have you told me that you’re not sexually attracted to other people and that you don’t care if you never get laid?”

“I don’t, “said Sherlock, “but I do care about you.”

“Me too,” whispered John, “and I suppose most people would say that makes me queer.”

“Most people are idiots.” Sherlock joined John on the sofa. He sat sideways so that they faced one another. “They shoehorn us into a little box marked ‘gay’ so that they don’t have to get their heads around anything more complicated.” He stopped, lost for words for once in his life or rather lost in a sea of them, all crashing into his consciousness. “But it is complicated…difficult… nonsensical in a way and magnificent in another.”

“God, I think we’re as messed up as each other.” John reached out to him and they clung together; a rocking embrace of reassurance that conveyed everything that they couldn’t put into words.

In some corner of his mind Sherlock was amazed that he didn’t feel trapped by this rib-cracking closeness. John was hot in a humid and sweaty way, chest, shoulders and arms almost sticking where they met, but he didn’t want to push him away. Finally it was John who eased back, although he kept his hands on Sherlock’s waist and claimed a quick kiss. Yet there was a melancholy air about him. “It’s funny what sticks in your mind, isn’t it? I must have been about sixteen and there was a photo in the Daily Mirror of two men kissing. My mum was absolutely horrified. ‘Don’t you think that’s disgusting?’ she said to me…”

“And what did you say?” Sherlock already knew the answer, it was there in John’s downcast eyes and slumped shoulders.

“I said yes it was.” John’s head jerked up. “I’m still not sure if I said it just to please her. She might have had doubts about me if I’d said no, that it was all fine, but I remember how it scared and unsettled me.” A faint colour infused John’s face. “I hadn’t ever been all the way with a girl and that was something to worry about, to wonder if I could do it right or even at all.”

Sherlock took the plunge. “Had you ever been with a boy?”

“What? No, never, no adolescent experiments and nothing in the army either. Nothing ever before you.”

John’s anguish touched Sherlock’s heart. He play punched him on the jaw, a mere feather touch of his fist. “That’s all right, I’m quite happy to be your first.” Affection washed over him and he smiled shyly. “After all you’re certainly mine.”

“I like that,” said John. “It makes me feel special, proud - Oh fuck, mum and dad would have been so ashamed of me, just like they were of poor Harry.”

Sherlock silently cursed John’s dead parents for installing all this guilt and fear into him. It was one problem he’d never had despite Mycroft’s barbed tongue. Mummy had always said that she never minded what either of them did or who with as long as they were happy. “That was their failing not yours and they aren’t in a position to criticise you now.” All burnt up and gone like grandmamma leaving only their prejudices behind.

John slumped back onto the sofa, letting the big burgundy cushions support him. “So here we are, two orphans of the storm.”

Sherlock never talked about his family. “My parents aren’t dead. They live in Cheltenham - which is almost the same thing.”

John turned his head sharply. “You never said.”

“I thought you had enough problems without my inflicting them on you. If they get wind of this – of us – you won’t escape for much longer though. Just don’t eat the carrot cake, mummy’s a terrible cook.”

“God, you’re talking about taking me home to meet your parents?” John chuckled. “Then people will definitely think we’re queer.” He put his hand over Sherlock’s. “I’m going to try to get my head around all this, but can we call it quits for tonight? I need some space and some sleep.”

Sherlock was also tired and emotionally wrung out. “Let’s say good-night then.”

They parted on the upper landing after a good-night kiss that adored and forgave.

*

He was hard. Very hard. Morel like morning steel or iron than morning wood. Sherlock pulled the sheet over his head, trying to find refuge in sleep. Mr Cock wasn’t going to be ignored and after a couple of minutes of fidgety wriggling Sherlock gave up and rolled over onto his back. He reached instinctively for his erection and quickly checked the movement. It wasn’t going to get the attention it craved. Instead he kicked the sheet aside and gripped the brass headboard.

No. Wait.

It had waited for days, twenty-one days to be precise, and it didn’t want to wait any longer. He screwed his eyes up against the glint of the early morning sun. It was going to be another scorching day. John was right, they needed a swimming pool. Perhaps he could get one dug in time for next summer –if he kept the house. Sherlock let the unsatisfied ache in his body override such concerns. He wasn’t in the mood for making major decisions.  

He was in the mood for a major wank and then some. God, it was sensitive, all hyped up and nowhere to come. Sherlock giggled, he would have to remember to tell that one to John.   The clock radio told him it was eighteen minutes past five and he wondered if John was up yet – awake yet.

Probably not as awake as his cock which had throbbed impatiently when he thought of John. “Oh fuck…” Sherlock supported himself on his elbows and looked critically at his errant cock. “Wait.” He was actually quite proud of it. Perhaps an inch or two more would have been nice, he liked to be extraordinary in all things, but it was more than adequate. What it lacked in porn star proportions it more than made up for in shape and colour.

John’s was attractive too, only visualising his cock wasn’t a good idea because it tightened the tense band of arousal in his groin.. “Ah, wait…”   He didn’t want to wait. That abruptly aborted ice play shouldn’t be having his effect hours later, so why the hell was he so desperately horny this morning?

“It’s accumulative, you fool.” Obviously all the days of denial had resulted in his crisis of urgency. Sherlock fell back on the bed with images of masturbation dancing before his eyes. He reached out and grasped the lattice work headboard again. “No, not happening.”

He could risk a few light strokes, but he might not be able to stop there because the pictures in his head were of pulsing, spurting cocks.

Think of something else then.

John.

John naked and wanking.

Oh shit, that wasn’t helping at all. He was masturbating John, bending down to take his cock in his mouth…God, he had it bad when he started thinking things like that, but at least John wasn’t a lilac tree.

Sherlock snickered. He closed his hand around his cock with a hiss of relief. A few slow strokes wouldn’t bring him off. All fine, everything fine, as long as he was careful. He experienced a upsurge of sheer pleasure. “Ah, good, so good.” Too good if he didn’t restrict the movement of his hand to a snail’s pace.

He speeded up deliberately, gambling with the edge, bracing himself against the flood of sensation his action provoked. If he let it go, if he let it come, he could tell John that it was an accident. That was exactly what it would be if he didn’t stop, a deliberate accident. A failure and he had wanted John to be the one who finally brought him off.

“Stop. Wait. Ah, wait!”   He froze in mid stroke, wilfully refusing to continue although his cock jerked in furious protest.

It needed John.

He needed John.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued in Chapter 18 in two or three days.


	18. Part Three Unity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reconcilation, love and sex, but something is troubling John.

John was awake, lying on his back with a limp cock and a crumbled tissue in his hand. Two minutes earlier and Sherlock, who never knocked, would have walked in as he was climaxing. That almost certainly would have pushed him over the edge, but a sneaky voice in Sherlock’s head said that it would have been worth it.

“I’m so close,” said Sherlock without preliminary.

John raised an eyebrow. “So I see.”

“It’s all right for you lying there all sated and smug.”

“Sated, smug and thinking of turning over and going back to sleep, do you know what time it is?” John patted the bed. “Okay, lie down and tell Dr John your symptoms.”

“I’m fucking horny,” snapped Sherlock.

John snickered. “That’s what you get for playing with it.”

“Are you this sympathetic to all your patients?” complained Sherlock. He stretched out beside John who shifted over to accommodate him in the single bed.

“Ouch, those are my ribs and I don’t see many patients in your condition.” John dropped his soggy tissue onto the carpet and kissed Sherlock. “It seems I wasn’t the only one who woke up randy.”

“With a cock like a flagpole and I did try to leave it alone,” said Sherlock.

“Without much success apparently.”

“I stopped, didn’t I?” Sherlock wriggled down in the bed, trying to find a position that would ease the urgent throb in his cock. “Oh god…”

Everything was making him want to ejaculate, from the wrinkled softness of the sheets under his back and buttocks, to the smooth pillow under his cheek which was still impregnated with grandmamma’s favourite   lavender. Even the fresh morning air was sensual and not nearly as cloying as in his own bedroom because this room faced the sunset, not the sunrise.

John clasped his shoulder. “Take it easy.”

“Can’t.” Sherlock arched his spine. “I need to…” He flopped back onto the bed, forcing himself to breath slowly. His breath hissed out in a ragged laugh. “John…”

“Right here.” John squeezed Sherlock’s forearm. “God, you’ve got yourself in a state this morning.” He held Sherlock’s chin between his thumb and fingers. “You’re not allowed to come, no matter how badly you want to.”

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut. A naked John with the aroma of spent sex clinging to him wasn’t doing any favours. And that was another reason he mustn’t…couldn’t… “When I finally do come I want you to be the one to bring me off.”

There was a still moment before Sherlock felt John push his hair back off his forehead. “Then you can’t come now because I’m not touching you.” John kissed his brow. The mattress dipped as he sat up. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

There was nothing Sherlock wanted less, but John’s tactic was a sensible one. He made Sherlock sit up in bed and dumped his laptop next to him. “Have a look at the news or a few gruesome cold case files while I make the tea, but absolutely no porn.”

It was difficult to concentrate, but the diversion helped Sherlock to pull back from the brink. By the time he’d flicked through the BBC and Sky news sites, and drunk his tea, he was no longer dangerously close to coming. He was still aroused though and when he set the laptop aside Sherlock sighed heavily. “Oh hell, I still want to wank or better still to hump something.”

John grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

A dozen possibilities crowded into Sherlock’s imagination. Some of them required more effort than others and he didn’t feel athletic, being squashed into a bed with John was far too comfortable. “The pillow or maybe the mattress.”

“Ask nicely and I might give you permission.”

Sherlock opened his eyes very wide and blinked lazily at John. “Please, Captain Watson, sir, can I rub Mr Cock on my pillow?”

“Behave.” John slapped him on the thigh, hard enough to cause a delicious sting. “On your knees, soldier.” He waited until Sherlock knelt up on the bed. “Over here.” John stood his pillow on end up against the headboard. “Get into position, but don’t hump until I give you the word.”

Sherlock eyed both John and the pillow dubiously. An awkward hump had not been what he envisaged and John, who was trying so hard not to smirk, knew it. He looked down at himself, past the rapid rise and fall of his ribcage, to where his erection stood out eagerly. Any port in a storm and John might well tell him to do without if he complained that this arrangement wasn’t good enough.

It might not be bad actually, all soft and thick with the framework of the headboard to support it. He glowered at John and knee walked to the top of the bed. Sherlock gripped the cool metal rail and pressed his cock into the pillow. The contact sent a tingle through his groin and he canted his hips.

“Not until I say,” barked John.

“Go to hell,” retorted Sherlock, but he waited just to prove that he could. He turned his head feeling a bead of sweat slide down his face to gaze at John. His hair mussed up in a way that Sherlock always found adorable. Fair hair shadowed his jaw, neither of them had shaved that morning, and his skin was creamy gold in the sunlight. Sherlock decided that last one was an optical illusion, but that didn’t stop his heart speeding up. “Kiss me.”

He had never asked before, but John complied without hesitation. Then he sat back on his heels and ran his hand down Sherlock’s spine. “Go on, hump.”

That proved to be easier said than done. The damned pillow kept slipping and it was awkward, although not impossible, to keep it wedged in place against the impact of his thrusts. It made it difficult to get into his stride and soon his language tinted the sunny air blue.   A long string of curses reduced John to barely stifled hysterics.

Sherlock threw the pillow at him. “This isn’t t funny. I’m dying here.” He closed his hand defiantly around his cock. “I’m going to wank.”

“No, you’re not.” John had ducked the pillow easily. Now he reached down and retrieved it from the floor. “Stop doing that, Sherlock.” He placed the pillow in the centre of the bed. “Go for it and I’ll trust you to stop the second you get close.”

Sherlock groaned out a laugh. He had been close for hours and why did John have make it a matter of trust? That wasn’t fair. “You’re a – all right.” He would show John exactly how good his self-control was. “Watch this.” Sherlock winked at John and stretched out full length with the feather pillow under his hips.

“Oh fuck!” Sherlock grabbed the top of the mattress and held on tight. Trapped between his stomach and the pillow his cock quivered and he moaned, grateful to have some firm pressure on it at last. “It’s so good.”

“You mustn’t come.” John placed his hand on the small of his back. “Don’t’ make yourself come, love.”

Love? The unexpected endearment moved Sherlock. He hid his folded arms so that John wouldn’t read the naked emotion in his eyes and slowed the rhythm of his thrusts.   The yielding pillow still tormented his overexcited cock and he spread his legs, rotating his pelvis measured circles. He heard himself sigh and whimper. “Oh John, it’s so good, it’s heavenly.”

John chuckled warmly. “Just don’t come.”

“I won’t. Ah…I promise.” He needed to stop if he was going to keep that promise. Each tiny movement of his hips threatened to send him over the edge, but he craved just a little more of his deadly bliss – No. Stop. Wait. His body wasn’t obeying his commands. “Oh god, it’ll be too late.” Sherlock thrust hard. “Stop. Stop. Wait. Wait!”

He rolled onto his back with a superhuman effort and saw John’s blanched face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” John swallowed convulsively. “I thought you were coming.”

Sherlock knew that he was lying, but to his consternation he couldn’t fathom what it was that had disturbed John so much. He clasped John’s wrist. “What’s the matter?”

John shrugged and lowered his gaze. “I…we had better pack this in for now. You were nearly there and I need to water the rat, that tea’s gone right through me.”

“Water the rat’ was an expression they had adopted after their encounter in the Fleet sewer and Sherlock could see from his posture that John did need a pee, so did he for that matter, but that wasn’t the reason for John’s unease. There was something else, something he was still missing.   “Is that your only problem?”

John’s head jerked up too quickly. “What else would it be?” He took a deliberate calming breath. “Sorry, if I sounded a bit off, I didn’t sleep well last night.”

That was the first Sherlock had heard of it, but he knew his John, if he pushed for answers he would clam up on him and they wouldn’t get anywhere. Softly, softly, catchee monkey.

*

“There’s a bus into Godalming in twenty-five minutes,” announced John a little after midday.

Sherlock, who hadn’t planned to do anything other than sleep off the morning’s exertions, lifted his head from the cushions. “Why would I want to get a bus to Godalming?”

“Why not?” said John. “We could grab a pub lunch and stock up the fridge, and I wouldn’t mind a look round the place. Isn’t it meant to be picture postcard England at its best?”

“Oh, it’s cloyingly pastoral and twee.” Sherlock sat on the sofa. “Lots of old buildings and lots of old duffers, and about as exciting as a rice pudding.”

“I’d still like to go,” insisted John. He checked his back pocket for his wallet.

Sherlock touched his penis. “Mr Cock would rather stay here.”

“Mr Cock is going to explode if you keep playing with him. You almost lost control earlier on and you’re never going to last another ten days if all you do is wank.”

John had a point there, Sherlock conceded, a big throbbing point. He’d been ludicrously close to coming that morning, so close that he couldn’t have lasted another ten minutes let alone ten days. A diversion might help him, besides there was something itchy and unease about John. His reaction to Sherlock’s bed humping exploits was still unexplained, but he was already jiggling the door keys in his hand, clearly eager to get out of the house for a while.

“I’d better get dressed,” said Sherlock. “I don’t think that the good people of Godalming are quite ready to meet Mr Cock.”

“What makes you think that I’m ready to share him with them?” said John. There was a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

Clothes, Godalming and boring people had to be worth it if they could make John look like that – No, not them. Him. That look was for him alone. “Did I upset you this morning?”

“I upset myself.” John crossed the room and gave him a gentle kiss. “We had better hurry up if we’re going to catch that bus.”

Avoidance.

Sherlock tried to curb his impatience. “There’s another one in two hours.”

“Let’s get this one,” said John. He cleared his throat. “I’ll get my head around it, okay?” Sherlock had just opened his mouth to reply when John embraced him, pressing their bodies together full length and cradling the back of his head. There was a hot sob of breath in his ear. “God, I love you.”

 


	19. Part Three Unity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A trip into Godalming and a trip down memory lane.

John liked Godalming. It was one of those very English villages of whitewashed stone cottages that British soldiers had fought to protect for centuries. Although for most of them this sleepy rural lifestyle was far removed from the harsh reality of their everyday lives.

He wasn’t absolutely sure what reality was at the moment. ‘The Star’ a country pub dating back to Tudor times was real enough as was the steak and kidney pie on his plate. It was the rest of his life that had taken a sudden turn for the bizarre. All right, so that had happened the day he met Sherlock, but what on earth had possessed him to say _that_?

And as to this morning… John gulped down a third of his pint of beer.

“Thirsty?” enquired Sherlock. He sat on the timeworn leather seat opposite John.

“Hardly surprising in this weather.” All the pub’s windows and doors were open, but there wasn’t a hint a breeze to relieve the sticky heat. “It wouldn’t be so bad if the humidity would drop.”

“There’ll be another storm soon.” Sherlock squinted in the sunlight that cast splinters of colour through the stained glass windows. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and sweat had dampened the hollow of his throat.

John watched a dewy bead run down his long neck and struggled to find a topic of conversation that didn’t involve sex. “I didn’t realise that Charterhouse was so near to here.” They had passed the gothic grandeur of the famous public school on their way into Godalming. It stood well back from the road in an ocean of perfectly manicured lawns; with boys, made miniature by distance, playing cricket on the grass. “I bet you went to a posh public school.”

Sherlock curved his hand around his glass. “I never went to school at all.”

“Everybody goes to school, it’s the law.”

“I didn’t. Either did Mycroft for that matter and the law only requires children to receive a full time education at school or otherwise, mummy opted for the otherwise.”

“You were taught at home?” Now he thought about it John remembered seeing a couple of articles about home education in ‘The Guardian’ “That explains a lot.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Kids need other kids. They need to learn to handle all the rough and tumble, and how to work together. School isn’t only about who won the Battle of Hastings, it’s about developing social skills as well.”

Sherlock looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Mummy once decided that Mycroft and I should meet other children so she frog-marched us to the local youth club. We couldn’t believe how stupid they were.”

That amused John although he attempted to keep a straight face. “I bet they couldn’t believe what a pair of arrogant twats you were. It’s a wonder you didn’t get a bloody good hiding.”

“A couple of them tried and soon regretted their folly.”

“Don’t mess with the Holmes brothers?” John laughed. “You probably did the other kids a favour by not going to school.”

“I would have hated it,” said Sherlock seriously.

“Yeah, I suppose you would have done being you.” John held his hand out to Sherlock and by unspoken agreement they moved around until they sat thigh to thigh on the leather bench. “That pie was nice, how was the fish?”

“Dead.”

They giggled together at Sherlock’s not funny joke. It was too humid to be this close, but John didn’t move away from the press of Sherlock’s hip and shoulder. In a minute he’d get them a refill from the bar. Golden dust motes formed a delicate curtain between them and the beer pumps. There were a lot of punters in, some in jeans and t-shirts like himself, women in flowery dresses, shorts and strappy tops. John scanned the available talent, no not interested, too hot to be bothered.

Sherlock moved, fidgeting before he sat back again. He let his breath out in a long sigh.

John was instantly attuned to his every movement. He recognised that wriggle, not that there was anything here to arouse Sherlock. “What’s got you going again?” John surveyed the crowd again this time with jealous eyes.

Sherlock gave him a saucy wink. “An army doctor in a tight white t-shirt.”

“Oh, belt up.” John downed the rest of his beer, aware that his ears were going pink. “What do you want to do next?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to look self-conscious. “It’s utterly pointless of course, an exercise in total futility, meaningless and…I haven’t seen her grave.”

“She’s here?” John looked around as if he expected Sherlock’s dead grandmother to appear in the pub. “I suppose she would be, is it far from here?”

“A few minutes’ walk away on the edge of town, nicely out of the way so all those rotting corpses don’t pollute the water supply.” Sherlock stood up suddenly. “Not one of my best ideas, traipsing over there in this heat to see a mound of grass.” He was already heading for the door and John hurried after him. “I don’t know why we have cemeteries at all,” Sherlock declared once they were out on the scorching pavement. “Corpses could be put to much better use, look at all the trouble I have getting body parts for my experiments. They should sell them in Asda and you could pick one up for me along with the baked beans.”

John clasped Sherlock’s upper arms. “Let’s go and find your grandmamma’s grave.”

*

Nightingale cemetery, not that John would have recognised the song of a nightingale if he had heard one. He was strictly a city boy. There were birds twittering in the trees that softened the skyline and the mottled grey and white gravestones were curiously picturesque. The Victorian chapel was open, not secured by modern locks as if would have been in the city and ivy clung to the stone wall that enclosed the sleeping places of the dead.

It was very peaceful, if you didn’t dwell on what lay beneath and Sherlock was doing exactly that. He rocked back and forth on his heels before the green mound of a fresh grave, giving John a lecture about the process of decomposition.

“We did all this at medical school.” John put his hand in the small of Sherlock’s back and sought to divert him from his tirade. “When’s the headstone going up?”

“In a few months when the ground settles, by then the body will have reached-”

“Okay, okay.” John cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. It hurt him to see how distraught he looked. “That’s enough of all that.” He tugged Sherlock’s head down until their foreheads rested one upon the other. “Take it easy, okay?”

Sherlock nodded. His breath rasped in his throat. “I miss her, John. I’ve missed her for years.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” John hugged him. “I don’t know much about her though.”

Sherlock raised his head. His eyes were moist, but he couldn’t truly have been said to have been crying. “Not here. I’ll tell you where she was alive and happy.”

“When we get home then.” John jerked his thumb at the grave. “She’s paying for a taxi by the way because we’ve missed the last bus back and it’s a bloody long walk.”

*

Sherlock was morose in the taxi, replying to John’s comments with a single syllable or not at all. Yet he held fast to John’s hand for the first part of the journey and when they drove over the Wey Bridge he placed it over his groin. John hoped to god that the driver couldn’t see them, but he kept his hand where it was for Sherlock’s sake. This was more about comfort than thwarted lust. Sherlock didn’t even have an erection.

When they pulled up at the front gate Sherlock squeezed his thighs around John’s hand in a silent thank-you then he strode down the garden path, leaving him to pay the taxi driver. By the time John had done that Sherlock had disappeared into the house, leaving the front door wide open. John followed the trail of discarded clothing up the board oak stairs and into the main bedroom where Sherlock lay naked on his side with his arms locked around a pillow.

John kicked his shoes off and dragged his t-shirt over his head. Then he lay down on the bed and fitted himself spoon fashion to the contours of Sherlock’s back. He wrapped his arm around his waist and gave him a hug. “You don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock took John’s hand in his and they lay in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

*

They moved apart eventually like drifting leaves, into the bathroom and down into the lounge. The cyan sky had clouded to mourning grey and when they talked it was quietly, briefly, words touching like tender kisses. Sherlock laid full length on the sofa with his head in John’s lap and John idly carded his fingers through his curls.

“She claimed to have been born in Paris in 1910, a descendant of the artist Vernet on her mother’s side, but I’ve never found any evidence to support either claim. I suspect that she invented herself from very humble beginnings. Grandmamma was beautiful and brilliant. My grandfather was besotted by her and perhaps she by him because she never remarried after he was killed at Dunkirk.”

“I never knew you had a military background,” said John.

“Everyone has a military background when there’s a world war raging.” Sherlock reached up to stroke John’s cheek. “I used to beg her for stories about her early life and she could weave a tale like no one else I ever knew.” He lowered his hand. “All fictional of course; there’s an irony for you, John, I can tell a man’s occupation from a smudge on his tie, but I never really knew her at all.”

There was no platitude that John could offer. He bent over and kissed Sherlock instead. “Let her go, love.”

“I like it when you call me that,” whispered Sherlock.

They looked at one another, bashful and tender.

It was John who refocused first, turning his gaze to the garden beyond the window. “I think you were right about that storm.”

Sherlock swung his legs to the floor. “I’m always right. It won’t come tonight though, these clouds will move on and we’ll have to wait at least another day for our downpour.”

“You’ve got another nine days to wait after today.” It must feel like eternity to Sherlock, but for John the remaining time seemed finite and fragile. He had no idea what would happen to them once this experiment was over. “Do you think you can last out?”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “I won’t let myself come before then.”

Something prompted John to play devil’s advocate. “What if you can’t help it? You almost lost control this morning.”

“Then you have to ensure that I don’t lose control, won’t you?” said Sherlock sharply. Then his expression softened. “I’m already way past my previous record of sixteen days and it is becoming increasingly difficult to hold back, but I don’t want this to end prematurely.” He smiled ruefully. “Even when I begging for an orgasm I’m still trying to hang on, how’s that for schizoid?”

“About what I’d expect from you,” said John.

They exchanged warm smiles.

“Are you hungry?” asked John. “There’s that steak we bought in the fridge.” He gave Sherlock a nudge. “You might need the energy.”

“Don’t overcook it like you usually do.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the way I cook streak,” grumbled John.

They ate in the kitchen with the shadow fall of evening whispering at the open windows. Electricity was spurned in favour of the silver candelabra Sherlock brought through from the dining room. The subtle honey like fragrance of the beeswax candles filled the room.

John watched one of the golden flames tremble in a puff of breeze. “Do you ever think about death?”

“My own you mean?” Sherlock contemplated the candle flame. “Very seldom, but the inevitability of it is annoying.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Annoying?”

“A waste of my remarkable intellect.” Sherlock’s pensive gaze lingered on John’s face. “Do you know what Mycroft says? All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage.”

“He cares about you,” said John. “You make people care, Sherlock. You weave your magic spell without ever meaning to and they all fall, moths to your candle flame, poor lovelorn Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and so many others whose lives you touch.”

“What about John Watson?”

“Him most of all.” John picked up the wine bottle and refilled their glasses. “Only this morning he made a complete tit of himself and told you that he loves you which he does.”

“Was it supposed to be a secret then?” asked Sherlock tenderly teasing.

John lifted the glass to his lips and put it down untouched. “Maybe John was afraid that Sherlock would laugh at him.”

“Sherlock isn’t laughing. He…I...” Sherlock spread his hands and then clasped them under his chin. “I’m confused, bewildered, I don’t understand why you would feel like that about me. I’m short-tempered and egotistical, and incredibly self-absorbed, and I don’t even like other people very much.” He caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Apart from you, I like you, more than like. I suppose I… I love you.”

John swallowed the lump in his throat. “Good, fine, we love each other then. God, there are a thousand complications and our sexuality is only one of them.” He chuckled softly. “I still don’t know where the hell this is leading, but let’s not analyse it tonight. Let’s just have another drink and crawl into bed.”

 


	20. Part Three Unity

It was disconcerting to wake up with another person beside him, but not too alarming because this was John and there was a space of crumpled white sheet between them.   John had his face half buried in the feather pillow and his fair hair was adorably mussed up. Sherlock brushed his fingers over the burr of stubble on John’s jaw. His. His John, who yawned and turned his sleepy head.

They kissed, a lazy meeting of lips that deepened into open mouthed, tongue caressing, kisses. Hands carded through hair and sweet words were murmured between honey kisses.   They kept their lower bodies angled away from one another although their cocks stretched out, each seeking its companion.

Familiar desire gripped Sherlock, but he knew that their game was not going to end in this mellow moment, so he let the waves of sensation wash over him. He found pleasure in the frustration, in the throb of lust that made everything so intense even in this time of relaxation. “Good, so good…” he whispered.

John giggled, a quiver of breath against Sherlock’s parted lips. “You’re nuts.” He moved restlessly. “I don’t know how you stand it. I’m dying to get off and I came twice yesterday.”

“It’s like a rollercoaster, the higher you climb the more exhilarating the plunge is.” Sherlock turned onto his back. “There are moments when I’m not sure that I even want to come, when I’m reluctant to sacrifice all this pleasure for a brief ecstasy.”

“You’ve got to come eventually.” John propped himself up on his elbow. “That’s the way the human body works, besides you know that you want to.”

Sherlock made a face. “Very much, but I would prefer to have the choice.” He put John’s pillow behind his head. “Nature compels us to ensure the continuation of the species, which is something I have absolutely no interest in.”

“So you’ve never wanted to be a father?”

“God forbid, I couldn’t stand children when I was one,” said Sherlock.

His vehemence brought a smile to John’s face. “I suppose I always took it for granted that I’d have kids one day, but I just never met the right woman.” He tucked a dark curl back behind Sherlock’s ear. “We’ll have to buy a puppy and stick with the red setter.”

Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands. “There was only ever one Redbeard.” He told him with his heart in his eyes. “Just as there will only ever be one John Watson.”

John lowered his head, obviously moved and enchantingly bashful. He kissed Sherlock’s right palm. “A border collie then, they’re meant to be highly intelligent and you wouldn’t be happy with a stupid pet.”

Sherlock grinned. “Haven’t I already got one?”

John went to whack him with his pillow and a tussle ensued when he realised that Sherlock had pinched it. Once he had retrieved it they flopped back on the bed with their arms around each other. John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you want a handjob before we get up?”

Sherlock canted his hips. “There’s nothing I’d like better.”

*

The devil makes work for idle hands and they suddenly found themselves at a loose end. Masturbating was certainly at the top of Sherlock’s list of things to do, but, as John had already pointed out, he would never last until the end of the month if that was all he did.

A diversion was required. The trouble was the area didn’t have much to offer except walking and horse riding, neither of which appealed to them.  John cast their net further afield and finally came up with a suggestion.

“Why on earth would I want to go to a country show?” demanded Sherlock.

“Because it’s there and because it’ll keep your mind off Mr Cock for a while.”

*

The showground was packed. Sherlock strode through the crowd with John at his side, skirting pushchairs and chattering groups with his sights firmly set on the quieter area under the trees that ringed the site. After the solitude of the house he found this many people and all the quick fire impressions that filled his brain disturbing. An accountant who was stealing from her employers, a smartly dressed pickpocket, the man who was about to tell his fiancé he’d won the lottery, and that child with the haunted eyes. He passed them all and kept going.

“Where’s the fire?” asked John.

Sherlock climbed the steep incline, resisting the urge to trample a picnic underfoot. “We’ll have a better view from up here.”

He stood with a knobbled patchwork of oak bark at his back and the fresh green canopy of its branches above his head. John leant against the tree in a mirror image pose after he put the two jars he carried into a hollow in the roots. One was homemade strawberry and gooseberry jam, and the other was heather flower honey.   “What were you talking to that old beekeeper about?” asked John.

“Bees,” said Sherlock. “They’re fascinating creatures and I fully intend to keep some myself one day, perhaps some hives down under the lilac trees.”

“That is if you keep the house.”

Sherlock knew that John was waiting for him to confirm or deny his intention to do so, but he was still very much in two minds about it. “Perhaps.” He sighed. “Or perhaps that is mere sentiment, as hypothetical as my imaginary bees or your border collie.”

“God, those collies were quick on that agility course,” said John, “especially that brown and white one, she really knew her stuff. That was the bit I liked best so far, that and the motorcycle display teams. I wouldn’t mind a wander around the funfair once it gets dark though. I used to love fairs when I was a kid.”

The fair was on the far side on the vast showground, a gaudy movement of gold bright gilt and scarlet. Between them and it stretched middle England at play in an array of pavilions and animal pens that reminded Sherlock of a medieval army camped on the eve of battle. There had been a civil war re-enactment that John had watched with a jaundiced eye. “Playing soldiers,” he had muttered scornfully, “and they’d piss themselves in a real battle.”

The beekeeper, ninety-three years old and full of dark tales, had been the highlight for Sherlock. He had been far less impressed by Morris dancers, livestock competitions, and the man in the red deer costume who had sold them their tickets at the gate. If it hadn’t been for John’s wish to visit the fair he would have headed home, as it was he was about to see a heavy horse display, something he could positively live without.

Halfway through the show one of the huge stallions gave a different meaning to the term heavy horse. The Clydesdale’s blatant erection drew some twitters from the crowd and Sherlock overhead a nearby mother telling her young son that the horse was poorly.

“I feel sorry for the poor sod that’s taking it around the ring,” said John.

Sherlock’s sympathy was with the horse. The wretched animal was obviously wanted to mount a mare and it was being forced to parade its massive swaying penis in public instead. A wave of empathic lust made his trousers very tight. “I thought this was supposed to take my mind off Mr Cock.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!”

John’s expression amused Sherlock. “Relax, I’m not into bestiality, but I do feel a certain affinity for him.”

“His affinity is a hell of a lot bigger than yours.” John folded his arms and watched the stallion with a smile playing around his lips. “Yeah, way out of your league.”

“I’m not a Clydesdale.” Sherlock stepped away from the tree. The thing in his trousers felt as if it belonged to a stallion, hard and heavy, and demanding immediate attention. “I’m going for a walk.”

“For a wank more like,” said John under his breath. He fell into step with Sherlock as they headed into the woods. “This might not be the best idea you ever had,” he added a few moments later.

The birch woods were busier than Sherlock had envisaged. Families and couples had spilt over from the showground to picnic under the trees and skim stones across the lake. In short there were far too many people about for Sherlock’s liking and he thought longingly of the private garden at Hambleton.   “Why on earth did I let you talk me into this?” he said tetchily.

“Into what?” John was clutching his jam jars.

“Coming here.”

“You’re not coming anywhere.”

Sherlock gave him his best Medusa stare, but John only grinned cheekily. He couldn’t help smiling at him. “It may be quieter up past the lake, most of these people aren’t dressed for anything more than a short stroll.”

“The heat might put them off as well.” John wiped his sleeve across his face. “It must be ninety.”

Sherlock’s throat was already prickling with dryness and John’s jam had developed a liquid swirl. At least there should be some shelter from the afternoon sun in the overgrown woods once they turned off the tarmac path. The problem was they weren’t the only ones who had sought the shade of the Victorian rhododendrons. Circles of pink and purple flowers still clustered among deep green leaves, although many more carpeted the ground. Nothing grew beneath their strong roots and in places the branches dipped under their own weight to kiss the ground. Sherlock found a hand’s breadth path into their dark world, one that led him away from chatter and laughter, until the only voice he heard was John grumbling at his heels.

“All this so you can have a play,” said John. He bent double to avoid a particularly low branch. “Stop here, this’ll do.”

Sherlock didn’t want to go any further anyway. He sat down on the black earth beneath the rhododendrons and when he looked up the old bushes towered into the sky. A ribbon path was visible though gaps in the foliage as was the distant ripple of the lake, but this was as private as it was going to get.

John sat down beside him. “I wish we’d brought some water.” He held a jar up in the dim greenish shadows. “Mind you this jam looks about ready to drink.”

“I’ll give it a miss.” Sherlock sat back on his heels and unzipped his trousers. The walk had softened his erection, but the touch of his hand still sent a thrill of pleasure through him. He curled his fingers back to let it rise unimpeded, fully aware that John’s gaze was as avid as his own.

“You had better be gentle with it,” John cautioned him.

Sherlock acknowledged the wisdom of that with a half-smile. If he pulled himself hard and fast he’d come in two or three minutes, shaking out his ecstatic failure under the bushes. Would he be able to orgasm silently and would anyone hear him if he moaned? He didn’t intend to find out, just fingertips then, as if he trailed them in the cool waters of the lake. Even that contact made his cock jump expectantly.

Voices drifted though the wood and a middle-aged couple appeared briefly on the tarmac path. They moved on, completely oblivious to what was taking place twenty yards away. He didn’t want to be caught. Mycroft would never let him live it down if he got arrested, but the risk added a certain spice.

Sherlock saw his own excitement reflected in John’s face. He leant back, supporting himself on his hands. “Kiss it.”

“What?”

“Kiss my cock.” He hadn’t planned for this, but the idea suddenly seemed irresistible.

“Fuck, okay.” John shuffled around on his knees, dislodging a flower that scattered them with fading purple petals. He claimed a kiss from Sherlock’s lips before he lowered his head.

Sherlock nestled his fingers into the hair at the nape of John’s neck even before he felt the first touch of his mouth. The first butterfly kiss landed at the base of his cock and John’s nose bumped gently into his pubic hair. Sherlock let his breath out in a gasp and John’s amused sigh fluttered over him. He gripped the ground, limbs taut with expectation and John didn’t disappoint him. A second kiss followed and John curled his hand under his aching cock before a third one was planted in the centre of his shaft.

Sherlock groaned.

“Hush, someone will hear you,” whispered John.

“I don’t give a – Oh god!” Another kiss just where his foreskin wrinkled below the protruding ruddy head of his cock. Sherlock braced himself for the moment John’s lips touched it and jolted anyway. “Fuck…”

John chuckled and started to kiss his way back to the root of Sherlock’s problem.

“Oh, god, I want to!” Sherlock pictured that stallion with its huge black and pink penis; John naked and hard. John moaning and quaking. “Please…”

John raised his head. He rubbed Sherlock’s trembling thigh. “Shush, calm down.”

“Can’t…” He tensed his muscles, forcing himself back from the brink, but John’s next words did nothing to calm him down.

“Let me take you in my mouth,” said John quietly and clearly.

Fear. Fear of the vulnerability consent would entail, fear of orgasm and fear of alienating John. He had wanted to do this once before and had been sulkily angry when refused. Yet those kisses had been manna from heaven. Sherlock nodded jerkily. “Be careful.”

John squeezed his thigh. “I don’t want to spook you and I don’t want this to end here either. You‘re too fucking beautiful when you’re all hard and needy. Good enough to eat,” he smiled, “but I won’t, I promise, just a few more kisses and a little suck.”

“Go on then.”

John ducked down before Sherlock could lose his nerve.   The first kiss dropped onto the ridge of his foreskin and this time it was followed by a swipe of John’s tongue. Sherlock bit his lip, trying not to moan. “Ah…” John’s mouth touched his leaking slit and his tongue followed it. A sharp contraction seized him. “No. Stop!” He pushed desperately at John’s shoulder. “Please, stop.”

“Okay, hush, it’s okay.” John let him gather himself together. Then he guided the head of Sherlock’s cock into his open mouth.

Sherlock whimpered. The underside of his erection was pillowed on John’s hot, wet tongue and a warm craven engulfed the most sensitive part of him. He felt the rhythm of John’s breathing on his cockhead and he whimpered again. A second later John began to suck on it and Sherlock’s muscles spasmed viciously. “Oh god, no…” He desperately needed to come, too desperately to deny it any longer.

Sherlock knotted his fingers into John’s hair. “Don’t stop.” Sunlight sparkled in front of his closed eyelids, mottled with fragrant green. A wood pigeon cooed in the trees and a dog barked.

John raised his head suddenly. “Did you hear that?”

Sherlock’s curses froze on his lips because he heard it clearly, the splintering of twigs under heavy feet, voices and that damn dog hysterical with excitement.

“I think the ball rolled under the rhododendrons,” a man called.

They were on their feet in an instant. Sherlock stifled a groan and forced his swollen cock back into his trousers with clumsy fingers. The moment his zipper closed over the aching bulge John turned, bent beneath the branches and headed for the path. Sherlock followed him on unsteady feet. Close. He had been so close.

Close to discovery because when they turned to look back a flash of a white tail and a man’s blue t-shirt could be glimpsed in their hiding place. And Sherlock – who always said that he never cared what people thought – began to shake in a different kind of reaction. Dear god, it had almost been a replay of that long ago lilac tree disaster.

John put his arm around his waist. “You’re trembling. Do you need to sit down for a minute? God that was a close shave.”

“Don’t ever let me do that in public again.” Sherlock rested his head on John’s solid shoulder. “I nearly lost it.” He stepped back a pace. “You were going to let me come.”

“I hadn’t decided,” said John without meeting his eye. Sherlock saw his face change as something occurred to him. “Oh fuck, I forgot my jam.” John glanced at their hideout and then towards the showground. “We’ll have to go and buy some more.”

“I’m not going back down there,” declared Sherlock.

“And I’m not going home without my jam.” John chuckled. “Don’t worry, the horse show will be long since finished and you can avert your eyes like a Victorian maiden if we see anything else with a cock.”

On that basis they went to buy jam. Lots of jam, but Sherlock wasn’t happy.


	21. Part Three Unity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the afternoon before...
> 
> (I'm very pushed for time at the moment (work is a nightmare) but I wanted to thank everyone who's taken the time and trouble to comment and leave kudos on my story).

It was another blisteringly hot day, but Sherlock’s emotions were stormy. He didn’t quite believe that he’d allowed John to suck his penis nor how incredible it had felt.

That was where the real trouble lay. John, his rock, the person he relied upon to call a halt when his self-control was in tatters, had been going to let him come.

His mutterings about not having decided didn’t fool Sherlock. There hadn’t been time to deliberate. If those people hadn’t interrupted them he would have had an orgasm there and then. Twenty-two days of restraint wasted with only another nine to go.

All right, so he had begged John not to stop, but that was beside the point, as was his spur of the moment decision to let it happen. He hadn’t used their safe word, the code that meant he truly couldn’t stand it any longer, yet John had been determined to suck a climax out of him.

A hot shiver made Sherlock press his hand to the flat of his stomach, pulling the cloth of his pyjama bottoms taut so that the bulk of his semi-hard penis showed. He gave himself a squeeze and rolled his cock in his palm, rubbing it with the folds of cotton. Sherlock rested his other arm on the frame of the sash window and his forehead on the glass. Good. So good. Why did he need John when he could make himself feel like this?

“Careful,” said a bright voice behind him.

Sherlock swung round. “You’re a fine one to talk.”

John’s smile vanished. “What?”

“You were going to let me come yesterday.”

John went a tad pink. “That’s what you do to me, isn’t it?” he said resentfully. “They could write it on my fucking tombstone down in the Nightingale - I’m not gay! Only when I’m with you…Christ, Sherlock, it’s like no one else in the world even exists.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“God, you really don’t see it, do you? You stupid, arrogant sod.” John made an effort to control his temper. “For a genius you’re bloody thick sometimes.” A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He pointed at the kitchen table. “Sit down and I’ll explain it for the hard of understanding.”

Touché.  

With his own sarcasm thrown back at him Sherlock decided to hear John out.

“This isn’t easy,” John began hesitantly. “So just bear with me, okay? When we went to that show yesterday I hoped it would take your mind – our minds – off sex and then there was that bloody horse with his cock hanging out. Once he’d got you going you set me off or didn’t you even notice how horny I was under those bushes? No, you didn’t, you were too wrapped up in yourself. And so was I.” He stared at Sherlock with total honesty in his blue eyes. “I’ve fantasised about giving you a blow job and once I finally had your cock in my mouth I didn’t want to let it go. I knew how far gone you were and I hoped you’d use the safe word so that I could make you come with a clear conscience, but ‘don’t stop’ seemed good enough.”

“It wasn’t,” snapped Sherlock. He refused to admit that John’s explanation was fair and reasonable. “We had an agreement.”

“So bloody what! Sometimes I think that this fetish of yours is more of an obsession. The world isn’t going to explode if Sherlock Holmes gets his rocks off.” John seemed to be on the verge of storming out. He slammed his hands down on the table instead, hard enough to make it shake. “For god’s sake, Sherlock, this was the last thing I expected this morning.”

“That’s because you don’t even realise -” Sherlock knew that was being unjust and far less honest than John had been. “Did you really want it to end yesterday?”

John sighed. “Not in retrospect, but at the time all I wanted was to feel your come shooting into my mouth.”

“I wanted it too,” confessed Sherlock.

“Yeah, I noticed.” John’s expression gentled. “You were so wound up, so horny, and I was half out of my head as well. You can’t blame me for letting my cock do the thinking.”

“I don’t.” Sherlock laid his arm on the table, palm uppermost and waited for John to clasp his hand. “It isn’t easy for me to trust people, John, not with my body and my unusual sexuality. You know that I’ve never let anyone get close to me before you came into my life and I…”

“You what?” prompted John.

“The most important thing…it’s not only about having an orgasm or not having one.” Sherlock pressed John’s hand and looked straight into his eyes. “It’s about how much I trust you, how much I love you, and when you moved the goalposts it alarmed me.”

John put his other hand over Sherlock’s. “There wasn’t any need for you to get nervous, I only wanted to make you happy.”

Sherlock saw a mirror image of his own emotions in John’s face; shyness, tenderness and most of all adoration. They smiled broadly and kissed in reconciliation.

“Well, you’ve lost your chance now,” said John with a wink. “You’re going to have to scream the safe word at the top of your lungs if you want me to let you come before your month is over.” He lifted Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “Trust me on that.”

“I do,” said Sherlock.

*

They decided to spend Saturday at home, away from the prying eyes of locals and day-trippers. A doing nothing day John called it which sounded tedious until John listed all the things they could do while they were doing nothing. There was Sherlock’s violin standing neglected in the corner and piles of books to read. John still had last weekend’s Sunday papers to catch up on while Sherlock had files full of unsolved crimes on his computer to work his way through. There were CDs to listen to and music to stream from the internet. They also had plenty of board games and sex toys to play with.

Far too many things to do in a single day of doing nothing, so they declared it a do nothing weekend.

It promised to be the hottest days of the summer so Sherlock put a shirt – just a shirt – on to protect himself from the sun when they wandered out into the garden mid-morning.   Flowers bowed in the heat, dying of thirst in the parched ground. John poked one unhappy bush with his toe. “Have you got a sprinkler?”

“There’s a hose pipe in the shed if you’re so inclined.”

John decided to have a go and ten minutes later everything was soaked; bushes and trees, his shorts and t-shirt, and Sherlock’s shirt and bare legs.

Sherlock grinned wickedly and scrapped his sodden hair back off his face. “Enough, John, this is childish and absurd.” He made a grab for the hose and John just managed to jerk it out of his reach. “Give it to me, you halfwit. I want it!”

John turned the jet onto him again, ignoring his squeals of protest. “Well, you said you wanted it.” He lowered his aim letting the water play harmless across the lawn. “What did you call me?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock backed off, holding his hands up in mock surrender and laughing all over his face. His shirt was clinging to him and water ran down his legs. He took it off and wrung it out before using it to wipe himself down. “Nice John. Very nice John, now put the hosepipe down.”

John chucked it onto the lawn. It wasn’t possible for either of them to be any wetter. “See, I’m a good boy.”

They met in the centre of the garden to exchange passionate kisses. Sherlock took John’s face in his hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “If you were a good boy you wouldn’t have woken Mr Cock up.”

“And if you were a good boy you’d teach him to behave himself.” John put his hand flat on Sherlock’s stomach. “What are you going to do with him?”

“What are you going to do with him?” asked Sherlock.

Faith. Trust.

John massaged Sherlock’s stomach around his navel. “Nothing too strenuous, we don’t want you getting all over excited again.”

That was going to take very little effort on John’s part because he was already more aroused than any man with an untouched penis had a right to be. “You’ll have to be inventive then.”

He saw the indecision, the grappling for ‘inventive’ in John’s concentrated features. Then his facial muscles relaxed into a smile. “I know the very thing.” He took Sherlock’s hand. “Follow me.”

John stopped in the kitchen just long enough to strip off his wet clothes. Just long enough to meld into kisses on lips and neck that drove Sherlock’s arousal even higher and brought John to full erection.

“I’m glad you didn’t go for the strenuous option,” said Sherlock ironically.

“You might not be in about five minutes.” John swayed in for another kiss. “Let’s go into the living room.”

The charcoal carpet was thickly warm under the soles of Sherlock’s feet, but the dry air was cooler than that outside. He obeyed John’s next instruction and laid full length on the sofa with a cream cushion under his head and his cock poking up expectantly.   “The sun’s in my eyes.” Sherlock put his arm up to shield his face while John drew the curtains to create their own twilight. Then He lowered his arm to watch John walk over to the sofa.

John stood over him, all naked and hard, swollen balls nestled in a tangle of fair hair. He chuckled when Sherlock’s erection jumped. “Have you always liked men?”

Sherlock frowned. “I told you that when I related the sorry tale of the lilac tree.”

“Men and trees then.” John touched the back of his knuckles to Sherlock’s erection. “And horses with big cocks.”

“I haven’t got a fetish about either as you well know.” The verbal and physical teasing combined into a muzzy delight of desire. Sherlock wriggled on the slightly rough sofa. “It’s all about sensation and seeing that stallion desperate to mate was bound to turn me on after over three weeks of abstinence.”

“True, at the moment just about anything remotely connected with sex turns you on.” John brushed his fingers over the head of Sherlock’s cock. “You’re like a randy teenager.”

“So would you be…” Sherlock lifted his pelvis hoping for more caresses.

Instead John knelt next to the sofa. “Now I’m going to play with Mr Cock and you’re going to tell me a story.”

“What?” Sherlock raised his head to stare quizzically at John. “Have you completely lost your mind? This isn’t a kindergarten.”

“I don’t want a kindergarten story. I want one about Sherlock Holmes and sex.” John jerked hard on Sherlock’s cock to make his point, releasing it almost before his moan rang through the room. “I want to hear what the narcissistic bugger used to do to himself when he was young, at uni say, and what he fantasised about.”

“Why should I tell you that?” demanded Sherlock although he knew that he would.

“If you tell me…” John ran his forefinger down Sherlock’s erection. “Mr Cock will get some much needed attention and if you don’t…” He moved his hand away.

“Have I ever told you that you’re a bastard?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back at him. “It may not be the most exciting story ever.” He swallowed the bundle of nerves that suddenly crowded his throat.  “I managed to wrangle a room at the top of the college tower, one with a strong lock to which I soon added a solid bolt.” He pictured the gleaming brass against the white door and the way the sun fell in a brilliant waterfall over the floorboards. “The loos and bathrooms were communal and on the floor below, but there was a hand basin in the room.”

“So you peed in the sink.” John shrugged. “It worked at Sandhurst.”

“On the odd occasion,” Sherlock admitted, “but that isn’t the point.” He tilted his pelvis to remind John where the point actually was. “An old family friend had given me some expensive agarwood soap before I left for university and I decided to reserve it for special washing.”

John laughed. “Washing this you mean.” He stroked Sherlock’s cock. “What’s agarwood when it’s at home?”

“It’s a resin from Southeast Asia, very rare and precious. Ah, harder…” Sherlock tried to thrust into John’s hand, but it was gone in a trice. The only consolation was that John was also breathing heavily. “I used to strip off and fill the basin with warm water. Then I’d wash my genitals in that marvellous soap, lathering it up until the scent of agarwood coupled with the rush of blood to my groin made me a little lightheaded.”

“Only you could get high on soap.” John curled his legs under him and leant on the side of the sofa. “What does this stuff smell like anyway?”

“Something like rosewood or sandalwood spiced with cardamom, but it’s a unique fragrance. Wank me.”

John patted Sherlock’s balls. “You have to earn it first.”

“All right, all right, by the time I’d rinsed and dried myself I was ramrod hard, ready to come there and then, but that was only the start of the game. I’d learnt the hard way – difficult way – stop laughing - that I couldn’t hold back for long if I masturbated at that stage. So I made myself wait, for as long as I could, without touching my cock at all.” Sherlock glanced at John and immediately away again. “That’s where the fantasy part…not that it was anything more than teenage hormones…”

John knelt up so that he could kiss Sherlock. “Tell me, it doesn’t matter how bizarre it is, I’ve had some pretty wild fantasies myself, most of which I’d never do in real life even if I had the chance.”

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest like an Egyptian mummy. “I’d lie on my bed like this or sit up Indian style fighting the urge to masturbate. As I said my room was at the top of the building and I could see all the gothic towers on the far side of the quadrangle. I’d imagine that I was somewhere in the east – they burn agarwood in temples – in the land of the Arabian nights and that masturbation was strictly forbidden.”

“Carry on,” said John. He closed his hand around Sherlock’s cock.  

“There isn’t much else to tell. When I couldn’t stand it for another minute I’d start to masturbate with my hands or sometimes I’d kneel down as you’re doing now and slide it in between the base of the bed and the mattress. Once I began to thrust the pressure and the friction would bring me off in about two minutes flat.” Sherlock smiled shyly. “I was only nineteen.”

“I bet you were fucking gorgeous, just like in that photo I pinched.” John flicked his wrist. “God, you still are.” He seized his own cock with his other hand. “I’m going to have to go upstairs after this.” He worked his cock in his fist and groaned. “I wish I could come all over you.”

“Why don’t you then?” whispered Sherlock.


	22. Part Three Unity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s done something stupid. Something that some of you may not like, but I promise that it’ll all work out in the end. 
> 
> Sherlock isn’t too thrilled either and John has a confession to make.

John’s paramour was dozing next to him. He wished that he could get up and leave, but her half-sleep was too light for him to sneak away unobserved. Even more fervently he wished that never accepted her invitation in the first place. A smile exchanged when they collided in the doorway of the village shop. Banter. Flirtation. Sunlight on her straight blonde hair. Her husband was away until Thursday. She had asked him in for coffee. For sex.

Although he yearned to escape from her bedroom the memory of their sexual encounter drummed up a pulse of lust. She had great tits, big and full with wide nipples that fitted perfectly between his lips. As to the other, to that soft, wet opening between her legs…well, it had been a long time and he had enjoyed it.

Natural, normal, nothing to feel guilty about, sex.

John moved to ease a crick in his arm and froze when she sighed sleepily. He didn’t want to have to make conversation, much less a rematch.

It had been refreshing in its way though, from strangers to fucking in less than an hour, whereas it had taken weeks for Sherlock to feel comfortable enough to give him a simple hand job. Not that anything Sherlock ever did was simple. John stretched out under the sheet. He shut his eyes and his thoughts returned to the previous day.

Sherlock’s offer, the one he had waited an eternity for, took him by surprise. John had hesitated. His arousal was at war his conscience because he knew this was definitely not fair on Sherlock. “You might not be able to hold out and you’ll blame me if you lose control.”

Sherlock’s dark head moved side from to side. “I won’t.”

John could have asked whether Sherlock meant that he wouldn’t lose it or that he wouldn’t blame him if he did, but he didn’t bother. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, not that those pink lips were what was being offered. A hand was more than good enough though. The very idea of it racked up John’s lust. He shuffled back from the sofa and the deep pile carpet scrunched up between his bare toes. “You had better not.” He closed his hand around his cock. “If there’s any coming to be done then I’ll do it.”

Sherlock rolled off the sofa and onto his knees in one fluid movement. “Let me touch you.”   He swallowed heavily and gripped his own thigh. “I want to.”

“If you’re sure.” John didn’t want there to be any repercussions afterwards. “I can manage all by myself.” More than manage, his balls were already drawn up tight. He saw the sting of rejection in Sherlock’s eyes a second before it was shuttered away. “Which doesn’t mean that I’m not open to offers.” John leant across the narrow space between them to kiss Sherlock.

They tumbled back onto the carpet still kissing. John felt Sherlock’s hand skim over his hip. It claimed his cock, driving a hot spike of lust into his belly. “Hell…” He scarcely dared to believe that Sherlock was going to do this, but the eyes which gazed down were wickedly amused and unshadowed by doubt. John braced his weight on his elbows and stared at the pale hand which caressed him. “Oh fuck.”

Sherlock chuckled, breath hitching in his throat. His own erection was red and glistening, but he kept his hands on John, using the left to tweak at his small, tight nipples.

John moaned. He should have known that Sherlock would give a bloody fantastic hand job, after all he had had more than enough practice. Sherlock turned his supple wrist this way and that, and John decided that this was one hell of a way to die because the bugger was going to kill him a minute. “God, I should rent you out by the hour, I’d make a fucking fortune.”

“My services are very exclusive.” Sherlock kissed him and nuzzled his cheek. “Only you, John, only ever you.”

That declaration drowned John in emotions that went far beyond this lust driven moment. He would die for this man, kill for him and do just about everything in between. Unable to voice his feelings he cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him ardently. John rested his brow on Sherlock’s. “Let’s move around, over here.”

On the floor with their backs to the solid support of the sofa and their arms around one another. John hooked his thigh over Sherlock’s and abandoned himself to the expert masturbation. “For god’s sake get me off.”

Sherlock did. Eventually. By which time they were both drenched in sweat, their gasps and groans broke the tranquillity of the amber and copper afternoon, and in the penultimate moment John seriously considered screaming insanity. Sherlock played him like that damn violin, with a virtuoso touch that built to an intense climax which floored him completely.

Literally as well as metaphorically; John lay on his back on the carpet with Sherlock’s distressed moans ringing in his ears. God, it sounded as if he was about to lose his battle to hold off. John rolled over and dragging himself into a sitting position. “Don’t come, Sherlock. Don’t you dare come.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “I’m so close…” He grasped the sofa cushion and buried his face in his folded arms. “Please, John.” His rigid erection stood up against his stomach, a ruddy column of need. “Please…”

No safe word and Sherlock was gripping the cushions, resisting the urge to masturbate despite his pleas. “Not now.” John crawled across the floor and placed his hand on Sherlock’s bowed back. “You know that you mustn’t come.”

Sherlock whimpered. His fingers clawed the cushions and then he splayed them out. “So near...” he whispered. He turned his head on the cushion. “Oh John, fuck…” He gasped out a faint laugh. “Was it good for you too?”

“More than good,” John had replied with total sincerity.

Better than sexual intercourse with a casual pick-up?

Well, it had been good to get to grips with a woman’s body after so many weeks. All the old chat up lines had been easy, a wink and a giggle before he got his leg over, and that had been straightforward and easy so well. John frowned. He hadn’t climaxed the way he had with Sherlock and her squeals hadn’t affected him as much as his frustrated moans did.

Different then, not necessarily worse, just different.

He flexed his fingers and felt the ghost ridges of Sherlock’s spine beneath them. How on earth was he going to explain this to him? Lying wasn’t on the cards because Sherlock would take one look at him and know that he had been unfaithful.

Unfaithful?

John tried to reject that thought, but it lodged stubbornly in his gut. He looked at the bedside cabinet where a used condom lay wrapped in tissue. She had been convinced that he and Sherlock were a couple. Hence the condom, despite her hysterectomy she wasn’t about to risk catching HIV.

The woman rolled over. Her make-up had smeared and her hair was tangled. She pulled it back off her face. “My husband will be home soon.”

She had said Thursday when he met her, but John was grateful for the lie. “I’d better be on my way then.”

The woman sat up. “I’ll let you out the back way so that nosy old cow next door doesn’t see you leaving. Thanks, John, it was fun.”

“You’re welcome,” he said gallantly. Welcome but not worth the pain his tumble with her was going to cause.

*

“You’ve had sexual intercourse.” Sherlock’s voice would have been emotionless if it hadn’t been edged with ice.

“It’s a long story.” John put his keys down on the mantelpiece. “Okay, not exactly long.”

Sherlock shrugged in elegant dismissal. His eyes were inscrutable.   He lowered them to the leather bound book on his lap. “Not that it’s any of my concern.”

It was useless to deny it. Sherlock knew and he wanted to punch that false mask of indifference off his sculptured face. Guilt demanded that Sherlock rage at him, that they scream and shout, rattling doors in their frames and hurling abuse.

His transgression had gone far beyond that.

Sherlock put his book down, neatly aligning it with the square edge of the table. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, skin stretched taut over his cheekbones. A dead mask of sorrow, then he and the rippling shadows moved, destroying the illusion but not alleviating the shame that gnawed at John’s gut.

John realised that Sherlock was about to walk out, not speak to him for days, not even try to stop him if he packed his bags and took the next train back to London. Apologise then, grovel. That wasn’t his way.

“You know that I fancy women,” he declared, “and we never agreed that we were exclusive.”

Sherlock looked at him as he had just crawled out from under a rock. “One assumes that when one is involved in relationship one’s partner will be faithful to one.”

“Oh, one does, does he? You sound like Mycroft all up on your high horse as well as up your own arse.” The condensing tone and the curled lip had rattled John. He disregarded the inner voice which told him that it was no more than he deserved.

“Yes, one does.” Ice over acid in Sherlock’s bitter voice now. He rose to his feet. “Unfortunately it seems that one’s trust was misplaced.”

That hurt as only the truth could, but John, who had decided long before he got home that his tryst had been a terrible mistake, couldn’t back down.   “It’s not about bloody trust. I got laid. Okay, big deal, it was just a meaningless shag for Christ’s sake. Haven’t you ever-”

“No,” said Sherlock.

“Well, if you had, if you were normal…” Now he had made everything worse. “It’s what blokes, ordinary blokes, do, Sherlock. They get their leg over, no strings attached, wham-ban-thank-you-mam.”

“Why?” asked Sherlock.

“Why what?” yelled John. The genuine bewilderment on Sherlock’s handsome face made him feel like a complete arsehole.

“Why would you – why would anyone – want to be so intimate, so vulnerable, with a total stranger?”

“How the hell am I supposed to answer that?” John rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger, as if to smooth out the jagged edges of his own emotions. “Look, I know I’ve made a right bloody cock up – okay, bad choice of words, a mess up of all this. Maybe it’s something we should have talked about before, but we didn’t. So can’t we at least try to sort this mess out?”

“Your mess, not mine.” Sherlock sat on the sofa, arms and legs crossed, almost daring John to join him there.

“All right, it’s my mess.” John sat at the other end of the sofa, where the cushions were warm and the sun glittered in his eyes.

Silence enveloped them, thicker than the stifling air and fraught with unspoken resentments.

A fly landed on the back of Sherlock’s hand and was shaken off. He glared at John down the length of the sofa. “You never answered my question.”

“Maybe it’s never happen to you, which doesn’t make it easy to explain.” John moved out the sun path that was dancing black spots before his eyes. “But you know how it works in theory even if you’ve never had the practical experience. People are attracted to one another, it’s what makes the world go round, and you should understand sexual urges, god knows you get enough of them.”

Sherlock didn’t smile at his feeble joke. “I’ve never been sexually attracted to a stranger. What would be the point of that?”

“Biologically the point is reproduction, but people don’t just have sex to make babies. They do it because it feels good. That’s what happens to me and to most of the human race, you see someone in passing, a girl topless on a beach, and you think I wouldn’t mind giving her one. Then if the attraction is mutual you get lucky. Sometimes you have fun together in other ways as well, dinner and dancing, and all that sort of stuff, other times it’s just sex.”

“Like it was today?” asked Sherlock guardedly.

John sat sideways so that he faced Sherlock head on. “That’s all it was. I’m not the first man she’s picked up and I won’t be the last. She couldn’t wait to get rid of me afterwards.”

It wasn’t a smile, just a tiny uplift of the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. “Perhaps your performance left something to be desired?”

“I didn’t hear her complaining.”

The mood soon became sombre again. John thought about how he’d got himself into this extraordinary situation in the first place. “I never meant to hurt you. But I can’t – I won’t – give up women, give up fucking.” His diaphragm contracted as a spasm of fear knifed into him. He couldn’t say what was on his mind. There was no future in it for either of them, but he couldn’t lie by omission either. “If you want truth, want trust, then I’ll tell you…” John met Sherlock’s curious, anxious gaze head on. “I’d fuck you if I had the chance.”

Sherlock froze. He shook his head, silent for once in his life. “I don’t do that,” he said at last.

John’s laugh was ironic and broken. “Neither do I, so if you think you’re shocked try and imagine how I feel. I see a lot of arses in my line of work and none of them have ever turned me on. Tits and cunts are what do it for me or rather they did until a few days ago. Then – fuck this is embarrassing – remember when you were giving the bed a hammering? You had your legs splayed open and I had a bird’s eye view of your rectum and I wanted to screw you.” If the last words hadn’t been spoken hastily they would never have been spoken at all.

“ _That_ was what disturbed you?” Sherlock was incredulous. “There was obviously something amiss, but I never read the signs. How could I have been so unobservant?” He seemed to mull over his own question. “I never considered that you would ever want to sodomise me.”

John flinched away from the accuracy of the word. Sodomise. It sounded brutal and primitive rather than clinical, yet it didn’t disgust him, quite the opposite in fact. “Well, I do.”

Sherlock stared at him. “You must know that I’d never permit it? Even those sex toys you bought, the ones which were designed to be inserted, repulsed me.”

“Meaning that I repulse you?” John felt as if he’d been kicked very hard where it hard most.

“Meaning that you disappoint me.” Sherlock stood up. “It’s the idea of intercourse that I find aberrant and don’t make the mistake of thinking that I’ll relent in time because I shan’t.” He touched John’s shoulder as he walked past him. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

“Not half as sorry as I am,” said John miserably.

 

 

 


	23. Part Four Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anguish, sex, and the beginning of a reconciliation.

It was still dark outside and Sherlock had chosen to brood in darkness. He ignored the light switch and huddled on the window seat in his bedroom.

How did they get back from this? Wasn’t that the phrase, the question that he was meant to be asking himself? If it was then it lacked an answer. For once in his life cognitive thought seemed to have deserted him. All he could do was feel and what he felt was desolation. 

Sherlock didn’t want to experience such despondency. He hated how it interfered with his clarity of mind. Hated the agitated sorrow which had kept him awake into the small hours. He couldn’t even be bothered to masturbate. All he could think about was John. His John with that woman. His John confessing that he wanted to fuck him.

The second had disturbed him nearly as much as the first and John’s infidelity had come as a cruel shock. He had noticed that the trip to the village shop was taking far longer than usual. He might even have been a trifle concerned. Then he remembered that John had been contemplating the erotic possibilities of an item in the gift shop. Not that he was supposed to have noticed the gleam in his eyes when he first saw it. John always tried so hard to surprise him.

He had surpassed himself this time. 

Sherlock had expected him to return with bread, milk and a lumpy bag to be hastily concealed under the stairs. Not with lipstick smudges on his collar and a dyed blonde hair on his right cuff. His guilt was so apparent that a child could have seen it. 

Was he behaving like said child? Moping and moaning instead of taking all this in his stride? People were unfaithful to their partners all the time. People. Not John. Adultery as part of a case was fascinating, often a prelude to twists and turns of deception. It wasn’t quite as enthralling when it happened to you.

Sherlock frowned at the dark expanse of wall opposite him. There were photographs there, rectangles of misty blackness in the night. Pictures of the dead whose DNA he carried and he could imagine each and every one of them saying ‘I told you so.’ Relationships were a bad idea, people were a bad idea. So was behaving like a lovelorn teenager at his age, but he was naïve and gauche in this new found intimacy, lacking experience and direction.

Lacking John.

His gaze turned automatically towards his bedroom door. On the other side of the landing John had fidgeted about his room for a time. Radio, radio off, then he’d gone downstairs to retrieve his iPad and subsequently broken it to judge by the swearwords that had filtered across the hallway. He was quiet now, sleeping or sulking through the night. Sherlock hoped that it was the latter, why should he be the only one to suffer? After all John was the guilty party and Sherlock still didn’t see the point of casual sex, as far as he was concerned it was a waste of time and effort, which wasn’t how normal people viewed it. He had known that before his confrontation with John, but the old pain of adolescence was back with a vengeance.

Not normal. Freak. 

His nails clawed his arm and he forced himself to stop, to flex his long fingers into a faked calm. ‘You are what you are, sweetling.’ It was her voice, grandmamma in his head, sympathetic and consoling just as she had been on the day he had disgraced himself with the lilac tree. Then she too had betrayed his trust, sniggering with Mycroft over his lust-driven absurdity. 

There was a knock at his door, a hesitant rap of knuckles on wood. Sherlock turned his head slowly to stare at it. He swallowed the ‘go away’ that rose in his throat. There was nothing to be gained from behaving like a spoiled brat. Sherlock steeled himself for whatever was to come and went to open the door.

“You expect too much of people,” said John.

“Do I?” He wasn’t about to take the blame for John’s misbehaviour. 

“Yeah, too much of me anyway because I’m a bloody mess.” John pushed past him without waiting for an invitation. He strode across the room and switched on the bedside lamp. “Take a good look at me, Sherlock. I’m an ex-army doctor with PTSD whose leg still hurts when he’s stressed, even though his limp was psychosomatic. And I screw up sometimes, like I did yesterday afternoon. I made a terrible mistake, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t think the world of you.”

“What does it mean then?” Sherlock crushed the spark of hope that flared inside him. He wasn’t prepared to forgive so easily. 

“That I’m an idiot, but as you once told me most people are.”

“I don’t care about most people. I only care about you,” confessed Sherlock. He felt the colour rise in his face and that embarrassed him even more. “That doesn’t mean that I can change, be different. I am what I am.”

John almost smiled. “Isn’t that a line from a song? It’s corny enough to be one anyhow.”

“It’s the truth,” said Sherlock. “Beyond that I don’t know how to explain how I feel.”

“Just tell me.” John sat down on the window seat. “Come here.” He sighed wearily. “Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s pride held him immobile then he perched on the edge of the bed opposite John. He saw the flicker of disappointment in his face, but it wasn’t that easy. Kiss and make-up, wank and sleep, there was a lot more to it than that. He leant forward, one hand braced on his right knee. His voice was low and earnest. “Throughout our relationship you have insisted upon your heterosexuality, only entertaining the idea of bisexuality in your most mellow moments.”

“I’m not-”

“Hush, John, let me finish. I know you’re not gay, that you find, and always will find, women sexually attractive.” Sherlock smiled self-deprecatingly. “Yet I was naïvely assumed that you wouldn’t act on the impulse, at least not without my knowledge and consent.”

“I don’t have to ask your permission to get laid.” John half-rose from the window seat and then he sat back on with a heartfelt sigh. “God, Sherlock, don’t you think that I wish I’d never seem that bloody woman? All I want is for things to be how they were between us yesterday morning before I went to the village.” He gazed helplessly at Sherlock. “But I don’t know how the fuck to put any of this right.”

“You think I do?” Sherlock tried to find an anchor within himself for his tempestuous emotions. “If this were a case I could sift the evidence and dissect the motivations, but it isn’t and I can’t.”

“Pretend that it is,” said John suddenly. “Just try it, Sherlock. Please, it’s all we’ve got.” 

John was as afraid as he was of losing this castle in the air that they had constructed so painstakingly. Bring it down to earth then, make it real, concrete and mortar. Sherlock flexed his hand. He wanted to scratch at himself so he drew his knees up and linked his arms around them. “Two men become…involved. It is a departure from previous…associations. Oh, fuck!”

“Try,” whispered John.

Sherlock shook his head and rested it on his knees. “I can’t…” A moment later he looked up into John’s desolate eyes. “Tomorrow. We can spend what’s left of the night in grandmamma’s room and talk tomorrow.”  
*  
They didn’t talk at all, but when John reached out for his hand Sherlock didn’t pull away. He hadn’t wanted to be alone in his misery and there was a peculiar comfort in their shared sorrow.

Sleep finally crept over them just before dawn.

They woke to another sunny day and they lay silently in the dappled rays of light. Sherlock was acutely aware of John’s living, breathing presence beside him. Even the hitch in their breathing flowed in cadence. They had both woken with vigorous erections and neither of them had masturbated that morning. When silence, emotion and arousal became too much to bear Sherlock pushed the duvet aside and rolled to his feet.

“Give me a shout when you’re done and I’ll grab a quick shower,” said John.

“Okay.” Sherlock stayed where he was. “Are you going to jerk off while I’m in the bathroom?”

“Not unless you want me to.”

“I don’t,” said Sherlock. Their eyes locked and a silent agreement was forged. “I’ll see you downstairs.”  
*  
Sherlock waited in the lounge. He was naked beneath the silk dressing gown he had tied firmly around his waist. This was not the answer, but perhaps it was part of the question. A catharsis that would vent all the grief and rage that thundered beneath his calm exterior. An affirmation that John would enter into sexual scenarios with him that he would never contemplate with his women. Proof that he could crack open the façade of normality and steal a little of John’s soul. 

Proof that he still trusted John?

That was nonsense. He wasn’t the one with something to prove. It was for John to make amends. Sherlock recognised his familiar tread on the stairs. Anticipation and anxiety slithered down his spine and he turned resolutely to face the door. 

“Are you sure you want to play this game now?” said John.

There was no need for Sherlock to ask him to elaborate or for them to discuss the form this purification would take. “More than sure, Captain Watson.”

“Okay.” John had come prepared and he laid his laid his paraphernalia out on the table beneath the window. Then he walked over to Sherlock. “Have I ever told you that you’re fucking gorgeous?”

“I believe that you used a similar phrase once before.”

John locked his left arm around Sherlock’s neck, compelling his head forward and down. Their lips met, crushed together in a bruising kiss. John wound his other arm around Sherlock’s waist, jerking him forward so that they were pressed together; thighs, hips and chest, with their cocks trapped between them. The pressure made Sherlock tremble with frustration. He clasped John’s head in his hands kissing him fervently and grinding his pelvis recklessly against his. 

John pulled away. “That’s enough of that.” He wiped his hand across his mouth again and let his tongue linger there, savouring whatever essence of Sherlock he found. “Take your dressing gown off.”

Sherlock would far rather have kept it on, but he cast it aside. 

John beheld the self-inflicted scratches on his arm. “Don’t ever do that again.” He was fierce in his weeping. Then he dashed his hand across his eyes smearing away his tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”

Sherlock was moved by John’s sincere remorse, yet he still couldn’t offer unconditional absolution. “I know you are.” He wiped away the last of John’s tears. “I never saw you cry before.” He moulded his hand to the curve of John’s jaw. “Let’s focus on the game.”

John gulped and nodded. He stepped away and paused for a moment to assume his military demeanour.   
“Kneel down with your hands behind your back.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. Time to play. 

He gave John a sultry, challenging look before he obeyed his instruction. Sherlock knelt on the floor with his hands linked over the cleft of his buttocks. John’s next move was entirely predictable and he refused to react to the cold snap of metal around his wrists. The handcuffs were vintage army issue not flimsy sex shop rubbish and he knew that he couldn’t break out of them.

John moved round to stand in front of him. “Do you still think that you can wait until Sunday?”

Another six days. Sherlock’s cock twitched impatiently. “Of course I can.”

“Pride goes before a fall.” John brushed the back of his hand across Sherlock’s high cheekbones. “Irene Alder once said that she could cut herself slapping that face. Don’t you think that you deserve a slap for going all gooey-eyed over a whore like her?”

“And what do you deserve?” countered Sherlock.

Shame flashed across John’s face. For a few seconds he struggled with his emotions before he resumed his wrathful persona. “I deserve some bloody respect, soldier.” He knelt opposite Sherlock so that they were eye to eye. “Next time I want to get laid I’ll find a whore who doesn’t object to an audience and I’ll let you watch. Would you like that, Sherlock?”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock wasn’t sure if he would be fiercely aroused or insanely jealous of the woman John fucked, although he suspected that the latter was far more likely.

“Not today. Today we’ve got other things to play with.” John closed his hand possessively around Sherlock’s cock. “You’ve never had a woman, have you?”

“No,” hissed Sherlock. “I’ve never wanted one.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” John gave him a single squeeze. “It’s a difficult sensation to describe if you’ve never experienced it. A woman’s cunt is moist and warm inside, and tight if you’re lucky. I don’t suppose it would do much for you though, so why don’t we see what does have an effect on Mr Cock?” He seized Sherlock’s erection and pumped it rapidly. “Oh, you like that all right.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and tried not to moan. 

John chuckled wickedly. “I thought you said that you could wait until Sunday.”

“I can,” growled Sherlock. He was damned if he would give John the satisfaction of seeing him lose control. 

“Then you won’t mind if I put that assertion to the test.” John went over to the table. He stood there contemplating his choice of toys with the sunlight forming shadow ribbons on his back. “These will do to start with.” These were a length of soft white cord and two sex toys both of which made Sherlock’s heart skip a beat for different reasons. He compressed his lips and didn’t comment, but his expression made John snigger. 

He looped the cord around Sherlock’s neck. The frayed ends dangled down to his thighs. They trickled and the cord brushed his stiff nipples when he exhaled. John crouched next to him with his cock standing out from his groin. Sherlock yearned to touch it nearly as much as he ached to stroke his own erection. He tugged uselessly on the handcuffs. “Let me wank.” 

“Not a chance,” John pulled on the end of the cord. It slid around Sherlock’s throat and fell in a heap across his lap. He shoved Sherlock’s knees apart. “Mr Cock’s a bit tied up at the moment.”

“Don’t you dare,” growled Sherlock. There wasn’t much he could do to stop John, but they both knew that his objections are all hot air and bluster. He would have put up much more than a token struggle if he really hadn’t wanted John to bind his cock and balls. As it was he acquiesced with a show of ill-grace and a few choice swear words.

The effect was more psychological than physical. He didn’t need the constriction around the base of his cock to stay erect nor would the cord spiral that held his balls away from his body wouldn’t stop him ejaculating. 

All that stood between him and glorious defeat was his determination to wait. He hoped to god that his willpower was a match for whatever games John planned. Sherlock bowed his head to hide his smirk. He had one definite advantage. John didn’t actually want him to come at this point. He was teasing, bluffing, whereas he was playing to win. Even if Mr Cock was intent on persuading him to concede. He could always pretend that it was an accident. Twenty-five days of denial was more than enough to demonstrate his self-control. It was a record to be proud of and didn’t he deserve an orgasm as compensation for John’s infidelity?

“Right, you’ve got two options,” announced John. “The aneros or the fleshlight.”

“What if I don’t care for either?” 

“Then I’ll choose for you.”

He was ninety-nine percent sure that John wouldn’t pick the one that he abhorred. That would create a bitter schism between them and yesterday’s revelations had already done enough damage. “Choose then.”

John looked gratified and relieved to be trusted with the decision. He didn’t let Sherlock down. “Not this.” He put the aneros prostate massager to one side. “I know how you feel about having things up your arse.” John hefted the transparent plastic cylinder of the flashlight in his hand. “Which leaves us with this.”

“Possibly not one of your better ideas if you recall what happened last time.” Sherlock regarded the object dubiously. Overenthusiastic use of the fleshlight had brought his second attempt at a month’s abstinence to an abrupt end. 

“You’ll have to be more careful this time,” replied John. There was an unholy gleam in his eyes. “A bit of self-control never did anyone any harm.” He flipped the lid up on an unmarked plastic bottle and trickled some of the lubricant into the cylinder. “There, that should glide on and off with no trouble at all.”

“It’ll be your fault if I come,” said Sherlock. That was the plus side of this, he could blame John if it all went horribly wrong. He pulled his stomach muscles in; an intense, irresponsible orgasm was exactly what he craved, but regrettably it wasn’t what the doctor ordered. 

“Like hell it will.” John gripped Sherlock’s neck. His thumb dug uncomfortably into his jugular. “I’m not taking the blame if you can’t keep it together.” He gave him a little shake. “So you had better bloody well hold out.”

“Or what?” challenged Sherlock.

“Or I’ll make you regret it.” It might have all been fakery, but this was John at his most controlled and dangerous. He tapped Sherlock sharply on the cheek. “You’ve got less a week to go, can’t you even wait that long to get off?”

Sherlock’s insides contracted sharply. He needed it now. His cock felt ready to explode and John hadn’t even started on him yet. He lifted his chin proudly. “I’ve already told you that I can.”

“Prove it.” John touched him, dry fingertips with a callous on one that scratched on his cockhead. “Let’s see if you can be a good boy for me.”

Good, but not quiet. The first slow slide of the cylinder down his engorged shaft made him groan. Sherlock tensed and refused to allow his hips to thrust forward. Wait. Wait. Unless one counted a few heaving breaths he managed to keep quiet while John eased the fleshlight back up. He bloodied his lip when John repeated the action twice more, but the fourth time wrenched a low moan from him.

“Having fun?” John stole a kiss, parting his narrowed lips with his tongue. Damp with saliva, it tasted faintly of tea and Colgate toothpaste, even more of arousal. The aroma of sex surrounded John in the summer morning. There was a consolation in knowing that he was also desperately excited and unable to sate his lust. Sauce for the goose indeed and this was the spiciest of sauces. Sherlock lunged into the kiss, trying to break John’s resolve. Lips bruised as each tried to provoke the other, stealing each other breath as they duelled with their mouths.

It could not be sustained and the need for air drove them apart. John grasped Sherlock’s knee and slapped his thigh. “Behave yourself.” 

“Don’t, I can’t…” Sherlock warned him when John nudged the tip of his cock with the fleshlight. “I’m too close.”

“Don’t you dare come.” John lowered the cylinder onto his reddened shaft. He stopped with it halfway down and twisted Sherlock’s left nipple with his free hand. “Hold back.”  
“I’m trying!” Sherlock pushed up until the fleshlight bumped against his pubic hair. “Let me come.”

“No, you have to hold back. Now I’m going to slide it up and off, don’t lose control.”

Somehow Sherlock survived the movement and it repartition, although he thrust and whimpered his way through the tormenting pleasure. “I’ll come next time,” he told John shakily. 

“I think we’ve both had enough.” John was flushed and gasping, and there were sleepless shadows under his eyes. He dropped the fleshlight onto the floor. “Now we need to talk.”


	24. Part Four Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John starts to come to terms with himself...

They didn’t talk immediately because they needed time to wind down and gather their thoughts.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee turning into cold sludge beside him. He clasped his right wrist and rotated it, trying to rub away the red indent the handcuffs had left. Then he pulled his shirt sleeve down and buttoned his cuff. Those marks would only distract from the real issues if John saw them and went into doctor mode.

Physician heal thyself.

He had catalogued a hundred minuscule indications that John was in a state. Once he had thrown in the towel   - or the fleshlight – a cloud of gloom had engulfed him. They had traipsed off upstairs for their separate showers and at the bathroom door John had turned to look at him with utter misery in his eyes.

If he had wept in the privacy of the shower the gush of the water had masked it.

Sherlock’s worry was tinged with irritation, this was all self-inflicted. John was his own worst enemy sometimes. He remembered how often Mycroft had said the very same thing about him. It seemed that he and John were two of a kind.

That didn’t mean that they would be able to sort this mess out, but he couldn’t bear to lose John. So they had to find a way to make their complicated relationship work. Even if John was falling apart while he struggled to get his head around negotiation and compromise. Sherlock was aware of how new the notion of putting someone else’s needs and feelings before his own was to him. He had always done just as he pleased before John came into his life. Then he had sensed a kindred spirit and gone for the jugular.

He had started all of this by masturbating in front of John, straight John, who hadn’t told him that he was a pervert or moved out of Baker Street. John had accepted him in his pragmatic way and had even encouraged his indulgences. Then he had gradually begun to participant and now here they were, in love and in the shit.

And there was John in the doorway behind him, hesitant and remorseful.

Sherlock turned to face him. “Let’s talk about this outside.”

“Okay.” John’s voice trembled on the single word and there were bruise-like crescents of weariness under his eyes.

“Come on then.” Sherlock led the way down to the bottom of the garden.

Beyond the whispering cluster of lilacs was an arbour with a stone bench.   Sherlock brushed some fallen leaves off its pitted mossy surface and sat down. The house was all but hidden by the trees and an unseen stream gurgled beyond the high hedges that surrounded them on three sides. They might have been alone in this bright world of green and gold, yet the beauty of the day conflicted with the melancholy which surrounded them.

John’s neck bowed under the weight of his emotions and the drift of leaves beneath his feet seemed to fascinate him.

“Did you wank in the shower?” asked Sherlock after a time of silence.

John shook his head. “I tried – briefly – but my heart wasn’t in it.”

“Did you cry?”

“No, I – yeah, a bit.” He glanced at Sherlock and back down at his feet. “A lot.”

Sherlock laid his hand on John’s shoulder. “What were you crying about?”

“Nothing. Everything. I wish to God that the last twenty-four hours had never happened.” John swallowed convulsively. “What I did yesterday… I keep insisting that I don’t need your permission to get laid, but it feels all wrong. I feel all wrong.”

“You were wrong.”

John squeezed his teary eyes shut and nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

Sherlock almost put his arm around him, but he aborted the gesture and held his tongue until John filled the silence. “It sounds like the biggest load of crap in the world, but I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t plan…I didn’t go out looking for it and it didn’t mean a bloody thing to me. And I never stopped to think what it would mean to you…to us.”

“Apparently not,” said Sherlock drily. He flexed his hand on John’s shoulder. “Was there anything going on in that empty head of yours?”

“I was always the normal one.” John scuffed his shoe over the grass and kept his head down. “It was Harry who was the disappointment, the embarrassment. My parents pretended that she was straight until she got drunk and smashed the neighbour’s windows shouting ‘I’m a lesbian’ at the top of her voice.”

“Did you never feel the urge to do something similar?”

“Whatever else I am I’m definitely not a lesbian.” John tiny laugh was fraught with tears. “After Harry’s glass smashing coming out to the entire street my dad used to say thank god there’s nothing peculiar about our John. I never thought – I never let myself think – that he might be mistaken.”

Sherlock stared at the nape of John’s neck. Despite Mycroft’s snide remarks sexuality had never been an issue in the Holmes family. His parents had never screwed him up the way John’s had, but rage was pointless. There was no retribution against the dead, even if their bigotry still haunted their son. “So you became a hero?” he said very quietly.

“I tried. Medical school, Sandhurst, the army, and lots of pretty girls, three continents Watson they used to call me in the officer’s mess. I never got around to settling down though, never had a relationship that lasted more than a few months.” John lifted his head slowly. “I used to tell myself that I simply hadn’t met the right girl yet. God, what a tangled web… and yesterday…”

“What about yesterday?” Sherlock wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear this.

John spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “She was there, gagging for it, just sex with no commitment.   And I was horny. I wanted something quick and uncomplicated. I’m digging my own grave here, aren’t I?”

“Not necessarily.” Sherlock tugged at John’s shoulder. “Look at me and tell the truth.”

“Truth?” John slumped back on the stone bench. “I’m not even sure that I know what that is any more. All I know is that I’ve done something bloody stupid. The why is a hell of a lot more difficult to explain.”

“Try.”

“I needed to…” John pressed his clenched fist to his mouth. “To prove to myself that I was still my own man, that I could manage without you, even that I could still get it up for a woman.”

“Which you could.”

“Yeah, I know and the sex was okay, not great, not spectacular, and you wouldn’t stay out of my head, but I’m not going to lie to you and say that it was bloody awful.” John sat forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “It wasn’t bloody worth it though. I knew it wasn’t the second it was over and I wish - God, I can’t tell you how I wish – that I’d never…never betrayed your trust.” John tried and failed to stifle a harsh sob. “I can’t be what they wanted me to be, not when I love you so fucking much.”

Sherlock gave in and pulled John into his arms. The moment he collapsed against him John broke down and clung to him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he gasped between harsh sobs.

“Hush, it’s fine.” Sherlock pressed his lips to the crown of John’s head and rocked him in his embrace. “Okay, not so fine, but we can get over this.”

“How?” John lifted his head to search Sherlock’s face with despairing eyes.

“I can forgive – this time – although I shan’t forget.”

“There won’t be a next time,” vowed John. “You’ve got every right to look cynical, but I swear that I’ll never be unfaithful to you again.”

There was no doubting John’s sincerity, but would he feel the same way in a week or a year? Sherlock held him at arm’s length. “Even if that means giving up women and fucking?”

John grasped his forearms. “Even then. It feels strange even a bit scary to think I might never have another woman, but I’m damned if I’ll put either of us through this again.”

Sherlock was racked by unexpected guilt and self-doubt, but certainty followed swiftly on its heels. John’s parents had screwed him over and he wasn’t about to follow their example.   He cupped John’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead. “I ask a lot and I don’t give as much – sexually – in return as I should. This relationship of ours is definitely skewed in my favour when it comes to sex. I’m a self-centred bastard and yet you’re willing to give up women for me. You don’t have to do that, John.”

“What?” John stared at him in amazement. “I’ve ripped my heart out here-”

“I don’t want your heart to be torn and broken.” Sherlock kissed his forehead for a second time and then his lips. “Altruism isn’t my strong point, but it’s enough for me to know that you were ready to make the sacrifice. There are two conditions though; I want you to make an appointment with your therapist when we go back to London. Tell her about your parents, about Harry and about us, tell her everything.”

“It’s going to be one hell of a long session.” John managed a teary smile. “What’s the second condition?”

Sherlock frowned at the sun glittered trees and crushed the urge to recant before he had even spoken. “Grandmamma had a saying, as rare as hen’s teeth, and I hope it will be a rare event. If you, when you, want a woman let me know and we’ll work something out.”   He hadn’t a clue what they would work out or how. “Just don’t ever try to deceive me.”

“There wouldn’t be much point in that.” John sighed. “I suppose I realised that you’d twig straight away. I must have some sort of death wish.”

“More a desire to prove yourself to people who couldn’t care less what you do with your life.”

John flinched. “Yeah, you’ve got a point.” He moistened his lips. “I’ve got a shedload of stuff to work through, my therapist will be doing overtime, but I want to make this, us, work.” This time his smile was less strained. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

“I’ve never loved anyone else, only you, my dearest John.” Sherlock rested his forehead on John’s and breathed in the aroma of him. “And I want you by my side forever.”

That smeared John’s cheeks with fresh tears and Sherlock also wept in the sun bright morning. They embraced in the sharp cut daylight; casting entwined shadows as they comforted one another with gentle kisses and tender whispers.

*

It was a day of reconciliation, of sleepy cuddles, murmured endearments, crap telly and takeaway pizza. They went to bed early, worn out by the emotional roller-coaster of the previous twenty-four hours. John had slept like a log, flat out and sinking into slumber the second they turned the light out. But Sherlock's sleep had been interrupted by unwelcome dreams and the disquiet of ungratified arousal and emotional overload.

He yawned, gritty eyed and feeling far shabbier than his blurred reflection in the window suggested. Perhaps he ought to have been irritated by John’s undisturbed night, but John was tacitum and dejected. Sherlock looked at him slumped over his soggy cereal. It seemed that a change of mood was definitely called for and he had arranged a small diversion while John was in the shower.

Sherlock straddled a chair and sat down opposite him at the breakfast table. “How would you like to pay a visit to Langworthy Manor?”

“Where’s Langworthy Manor?” John let his spoon sink into his milk sodden cornflakes. “And why would I want to go there?”

“Langworthy is that fifteen million pound country estate that’s up for sale and I’ve got an appointment to view it at ten-thirty.”

“What for? You can't possibly be thinking of buying it. You haven’t got that kind of money.”

Sherlock winked at him. “Ah, but the estate agent thinks that I have and he's falling over himself to be obliging. Can you imagine how much the commission on a sale like that would be?”

“Enough to make my bank balance look much healthier, but why the sudden interest? You're not the sort to enjoy nosing about in people's china cabinets without a good reason.”

“I once solved a double murder with the aid of a Dresden shepherdess,” said Sherlock, “and some recreational nosing around gives me the opportunity to fine-tune my observational skills. However, I do have an ultra-motive.”

John’s eyes narrowed warily. “Which is what exactly?”

“They already have one offer on the table, thirteen million from a Mr Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mycroft? What did he do, blackmail the Russian mafia or something?”

“Quite possibly, but Mycroft isn’t buying it for himself,” said Sherlock grinning broadly. “He would be making the purchase on behalf of the Diogenes Club, who may well be worth more than the Russian mafia. The trustees have promised him a grace and favour apartment though and if Mycroft is to be believed it will be considerably larger than this house.”

“My country retreat’s bigger than your country retreat?” John shook his head. “Honestly, you’re like a couple of kids.” He tried to look severe. “So the whole point of this childish charade is to wind Mycroft up?”

“Correct.”

John laughed. “Right, let’s do it then.”

*

The young estate agent went for a mixture or charm and humility that became irritating after the first thirty seconds. Especially as his body language and the shine on his shoes confirmed that he wasn’t comfortable around gay men. Strict religious bringing, coupled with a bad teenage experience and performance anxiety fuelled by his ex-girlfriend’s comments on his love making. It was amazing what one could tell from the way a man held a clipboard.

“Oh, look, there’s a pool,” said Sherlock in the swishy manner he adopted when they arrived. He turned to John. “You’ve always wanted a pool, sweetie.”

“It’s handy for drowning idiots in,” muttered John under his breath. “Talking of which, can’t you get rid of him?”

The estate agent, Payne by name and pain by nature, had launched into a long series of statistics about dimensions, depth and water temperature controls.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting for us in your car?” Sherlock interrupted him. “My partner and I want to try fucking in the pool.”

If there had been a jaw-dropping contest in progress it would have been debatable whether John or Mr Payne would have won it.

“He’s joking,” John assured the thunderstruck estate agent. Then he looked at Sherlock and a glint of mischief danced in his tired eyes. “We’ll probably just do it on the floor.”

 


	25. Part Four Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A country pub, male chastity devices, a game of Scrabble and some special moments.

Sherlock put his glass down on the wooden step. He had only taken two sips and the lager shimmered, mellow gold in the afternoon sun. “You surprised me,” he confessed.

John shrugged. He sat two steps below him on the old railway bridge and the movement shifted his shoulder against Sherlock’s upper thigh in a very pleasant way. “I surprised myself.” He folded both hands around his beer glass. “My god, did you see that poor sod’s face? He didn’t know where to look.”

“Mr Payne thinks you’re gay.”

“He thought that anyway given how you were camping it up,” John tilted his head back so he could see Sherlock’s face, “You really are a prat sometimes.”

They both giggled.

“It’s nice here,” added John. Here was a country pub, ‘The Trackside Inn’ housed in a disused railway station which had been closed in the nineteen-sixties. Station signs and wooden sleepers adorned with tubs of flowers, completed the effect. “They do a good ploughman’s lunch as well. You did enjoy my lunch, didn’t you?”

Sherlock had insisted that he wasn’t hungry and then he’s helped himself to half of John’s ploughman’s. “It was very nice, thank you.” He paused to let the irony take effect and because he wasn’t sure how to broach the next subject on his agenda. “I’ve got a problem.”

“Indigestion?” John moved round so that his back rested against the bridge. “What problem? Is it to do with me, with what happened?”

Sherlock traced the curve of John’s jaw. “That wasn’t what kept me awake half the night. Mr Cock was rebellious.”

John snorted. “In other words you were too horny to sleep.”

“Dangerously so.” Sherlock glared at a magpie pecking at a discarded crust as if the bird were responsible for his predicament. “As you know I’m a light sleeper-”

“Tossing and turning, and nicking all the bedclothes.”

“That’s beside the point, “said Sherlock impatiently. “To reiterate I’m a light sleeper so if I’m plagued by erotic dreams they normally wake me before any harm’s done. But it’s been a close call recently and twice last night I woke on the verge of an intense orgasm.”

“That’s hardly surprising all things considered. Perhaps it’s time to call it quits. To be honest I’m not exactly comfortable with what we did this morning. It all got a bit freaky and out of control.”

“We didn’t do anything we haven’t done before, it was the circumstances that put a raw edge on it. If I hadn’t wanted it I would have refused to participate, but it was what we both needed so there’s no reason for you to feel guilty.”

“I could make a career out of guilt at the moment.” John shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I don’t know what we can do about your problem though. There certainly aren’t any drugs I could or would give you, so if that’s the idea then you can forget it.”

“It isn’t, so we need another solution to my dilemma, one which will allow me to get some rest – not even I can go nearly a week without sleep – and maintain control during the night.”

“Oh, is that all?” John ran a distracted hand over his scalp. “Maybe you should just take your chances and if you come in your sleep-”

“We’ll both miss all the fun.” Sherlock leant down until their noses were almost touching. “Neither of us wants it to end like that. I intend to be fully conscious when I finally get to come and to savour every precious second of it.” He brushed the back of his finger over John’s cheek and down his throat. “And don’t you want to watch me shake? Don’t you want to hear me moan when you push me over the edge?”

“Shut up.” John had gone pink around the gills. He studied Sherlock for a moment. “You’ve got something in mind. Come on, what’s going on in that evil genius brain of yours?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how John would feel about his solution. He wasn’t completely sure how he felt about it himself. “I was considering some sort of cage arrangement.”

“Well, I could always put you in one and – Oh fuck, you mean one of those…” He pointed at Sherlock’s groin and Sherlock nodded slowly. “Bloody hell!” John sat back so quickly he banged his head on the bridge. “Ouch…” He rubbed the back of his head. “That hurt. God, I once had to cut a lieutenant colonel out of one of those because he’d lost the key. It looked like a medieval torture device.”

It was a description that did nothing to increase Sherlock’s enthusiasm, but it was the only solution he had. “Have you got a better idea?”

“Not really,” admitted John. He squeezed himself onto the same step as Sherlock and put his arm around his waist. “Okay, we’ve got three options. One we just carry on and take our chances on you coming in your sleep before Sunday.”

“Which I will,” snapped Sherlock.

“All right.” John nuzzled his temple and planted a comforting kiss on his brow. “Two we call an end to this experiment and go home and get you off his afternoon.”

Lust lanced through him and Sherlock’s cock jerked inside his trousers in anticipation of blessed relief. He bit his lip and willed it to subside. “I want to, almost more than anything, but I’ll regret it later and be livid with myself for not holding out to the end.” He released a sighing breath and smiled at John. “Get thy behind me Satan.”

“Fine, fine.” John held up his hands in mock surrender. “That leaves your stupid plan then. We’ve still got a problem though, it’s not something that we can buy at the village shop and if we buy one online you may well come before it does.”

“Not a problem,” said Sherlock. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders because John was smiling and ready to go along with his latest bout of insanity. “There are plenty of sex shops in London.”

“London? You want us to go up to London at this time of the day?”

John’s indignation made Sherlock chuckle. “It’s just gone four o’clock in the afternoon. It’ll take us twenty minutes to walk to Whitley Station, fifty-five minutes on the train to Waterloo, an hour at most for shopping, and another one back. That will make it about eight o’clock when we get home or is that past your bedtime?”

“Cheeky git.” John gave him a hard squeeze around the middle. “It’ll be like an oven in town and we’ll catch the rush hour so all the trains will be packed, but throw in a Chinese meal in Soho and I’m all yours.”

“I thought that you were anyway,” said Sherlock very softly.

“So does Mr Payne and he’s quite right. I may be an idiot who screws around, but I’m your idiot. Always and forever yours.”

*

“I’m doing my best,” muttered John. “These instructions are useless. There, that’s got it.” He sat back on his heels to admire his handiwork and rubbed his sore fingers together. “That lock was a bugger.” He dangled the tiny silver keys in the air. “So I’d better not lose these, had I?”

“Don’t you dare,” growled Sherlock.

“How is it?” asked John. Sherlock looked uneasy and sounded unhappy, and he wouldn’t have put one of those metal contraptions on his own cock for all the tea in China. He put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh, kneading the tense muscle. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I chose it, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did eventually.” They had perused the male chastity device sections of four Soho sex shops before Sherlock found a cock cage he liked the look of. In the third shop a big bear-like man had tapped John on the shoulder and asked whether he ever rented Sherlock out. He would have smashed the guy’s teeth in if he had laid a finger on Sherlock, but the look on his lover’s face had been worth its weight in metal chastity cages. “So how does it feel?”

“Hot and heavy.” Sherlock wriggled his bare toes on the bedroom carpet and parted his legs. “It’s very constricting.”

“You wanted it tight.” John leant back on his hands. In that position he had a bird’s eye view of the steel spiral that imprisoned Sherlock’s hapless cock. Sherlock had picked it in preference to the rigid plastic or solid steel versions, but it was still a vicious looking beastie. A coil of shining metal rings with a domed cage at the tip and a strong steel ring at the top which fastened around the root of Sherlock’s cock and balls. The whole thing was designed to make erection very uncomfortable and it was secured by a tiny brass padlock.

“It needs to be close fitting to be effective, you idiot.” Sherlock’s expression gentled and he touched John’s hair. “My idiot.”

“Thanks a million.” John clambered to his feet and claimed a kiss. He pulled Sherlock close and muzzled his neck. “Don’t let it freak you out. I can unlock it any time you want, just say the word.”

“Not until the morning.” Sherlock returned his kiss. “I can control myself during the day, but I need this at night now.” He giggled in John’s ear. “You wouldn’t believe some of the dreams I’ve been having.”

“Try me,” whispered John. He clasped Sherlock’s buttocks so that they were pressed together and he felt the hard metal poke into his hip. “On second thoughts perhaps you had better not with this on, we don’t want Mr Cock rattling his cage.”

“He’s trying to do that already.” Sherlock grimaced. “Fuck, it’s tight.”

“Like you said it needs to be.” John soothed him with another kiss. Guilt tugged at his conscience. He shouldn’t let Sherlock put himself through this, but hadn’t he learnt his lesson at the country show? If Sherlock wanted to call time on the game he would do so and John would get no thanks if he brought it to a premature conclusion. “Not that I’m sure you always know what’s good for you.”

“You’re good for me.” Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder and held him close. “My John. My rock.”

“You’re the one who’s like a bloody rock,” joked John to hide how moved he was by Sherlock’s words. He kissed the crown of his head and hugged him fiercely. “We’ll turn in for the night in a while, but we had better find something to do until then.” He touched Sherlock’s imprisoned penis delicately. “Otherwise Mr Cock will keep on trying to break out of his cage.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Sherlock.

“Now there’s a question…”

There wasn’t a television in the room and porn on the laptop was a no-no for obvious reasons, so John proposed Scrabble, tea and chocolate biscuits. Sherlock declared that it would take a lot more than Scrabble to divert his attention, but once they started the game his competitive streak kicked in.

After an hour stretched out naked on the king sized bed with the Scrabble board between them it was deadlock. Neither of them could make much out of the letters they had and neither was willing to concede defeat.

John yawned loudly. “Hurry it up will you?”

“I’m thinking.” Sherlock stared at the board. His right hand glided over his chest and stomach, and down to the steel bands that encircled his cock.

John tapped his arm sharply. “Leave it alone.”

“It helps me think.”

“And if some of these words are anything to go by I know what you’re thinking about.” John pointed at the board. “Frustration, disgruntlement, nonfulfillment, phallus and urethra to name but a few.”

“That last one was yours.”

“I had a ‘u’ and an ‘h’ to use up,” said John defensively. If he kept looking at the metal cage around Sherlock’s cock it was just to check that everything was okay down there.

“Of course you did,” said Sherlock archly.

John laughed. “All this is a bit weird, I still can’t decide if I’m fascinated or freaked out by it.”

Sherlock frowned down at his groin. “I’m constantly aware that it’s there and it isn’t entirely comfortable even when I’m flaccid. I wouldn’t want to wear it regularly, but as a means to an end it should serve its purpose.”

“It’s not a hundred percent fool proof, but it should make getting hard a pretty unpleasant experience.” John reached across to the steel cage. “I’m still not convinced this isn’t too tight.”

“We bought a size bigger than I wanted on your recommendation.” Sherlock trapped John’s hand under his and pressed it against the metal ribs. “It isn’t going to work if it doesn’t pinch when I get an erection.”

John sighed. “Don’t blame me if something drops off.” He sat up on the bed. “Let’s call it an honourable draw.”

“Even if I was winning,” said Sherlock.

“You bloody weren’t.” John tipped the Scrabble letters back into the bag and dumped the game on the floor. Then he lay back and held out his arms. “Come here, love.”

Sherlock wriggled across the bed into John’s embrace. The kissed tenderly and then with a bright blaze of passion. John smiled affectionately when Sherlock winced. “Ah, poor baby, does your cock hurt?” He silenced Sherlock’s retort with his mouth and rubbed his stomach above the silver and black of cage and pubic hair. “Shush, it’s okay, Dr John will look after you.”

They lay on their sides on the rumpled up sheets with their arms around each other. Stroking hips and backs, cradling the backs of one another’s heads, making love with their mouths in the twilight. Lips were nibbled and tongues entwined drawing out the essence of love and desire until it seemed that they shared the same breath. John followed the well-known path along Sherlock’s jaw and over the arch of his cheekbones to kiss his closed eyelids. “I love you.”

“Me too.” Sherlock arched his back, heels digging into the mattress. “You too I mean, I love you.” He giggled breathlessly. “Fuck, it aches.” He whimpered. “I want to wank.”

“Join the club.” The inflamed tip of John’s erection bumped against Sherlock’s hip every time their bodies undulated against each other.

“At least you can get hard…” Sherlock grasped John’s hip and pulled him closer, so that his caged cock was sandwiched between their stomachs. “Look at the state of me.”

John didn’t stop kissing him long enough to say that he couldn’t look at anything in that position. He felt it through, the hard ribs poked into his abdomen every time Sherlock squirmed excitedly. “It’s okay, it’s fine,” he murmured between kisses.

“I know,” whispered Sherlock into the shell of his ear. “So good, so beautiful.”

They moved together, a lazy rolling ripple of hips, kissing while the sky darkened from purple velvet to midnight black. Sherlock murmured needfully, but John knew that neither of them was going to come tonight. That wasn’t what this gentle love-making was about.

A tear stinging sorrow suddenly overwhelmed him. Would they ever be able to recreate this ethereal tenderness? It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before; a sublimation of physical desire to profound love. The urgent throb in his groin seemed distant somehow, merely part of a deeper sensory experience which was almost mystical in its intensity.

They drew back just enough to gaze into one another’s eyes.

“What happened?” asked John almost soundlessly.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock stroked his face and John watched his kiss swollen lips move when he spoke. “Occasionally when I’ve been half out of my head with lust and frustration everything has taken on a brighter, sharper hue, almost as if I were stoned, but this was different.” He rested his forehead on John’s. “More emotional, more spiritual.”

“That’s how it felt to me.” John kissed Sherlock’s dark curls and Sherlock sighed contentedly.

*

The BBC weatherman said that the heat wave was about to end, but the terrace was still sun scorched. Heat radiated up through the soles of John’s bare feet. He leant his back against the kitchen wall while he drank his coffee. Everything was just as it always was yet the memory of their love-making misted his vision, a unique never-to-be-forgotten event; although he had no objection to trying to recreate it in the not too distant future.

They had fallen into an immediate and blissful sleep, emotionally if not physically sated, and Sherlock had slept through until twenty past five in the morning. He had strained and twisted trying to escape his confinement in the seconds before he jolted awake with a curse. “Fucking hell!” Sherlock grabbed his steel encased cock. “Get this thing off me.”

John had started to reach for the key and then he thought better of it. He had refused to oblige until Sherlock’s morning wood gave up the struggle.

John rubbed the top of his arm. Sherlock hadn’t needed to thump him quite so hard. He’d have a bruise there tomorrow, not that he cared. Their early morning wrestling match had been exhilarating and it hadn’t taken much to bring himself to lusty orgasm under the shower afterwards.

Now he sighed happily luxuriating in the memory of those joyful spasms. God, he didn’t know how Sherlock managed to last for weeks on end without going screaming mad. Not that he wasn’t bonkers anyway. They both were, but it seemed like a wonderful madness. Sometimes life was very good.

Sherlock appeared fully dressed in the kitchen doorway.

“Are we going somewhere?” asked John. The heat coupled with the privacy the house afforded them meant that they had more or less given up on clothes unless they were leaving home for some reason.

“Down to the village for breakfast.” Sherlock walked over to John, took his hand and placed it on the front of his black trousers. “Rub me.”

John squeezed the material around his cock, rolling the thick shaft in his hand. Sherlock gasped, going wide eyed almost instantly. “That’s it until I’ve been fed.” John gave him a farewell pat. “I’ll go and get dressed,” he said cheerfully. “And no playing with yourself while I’m gone.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Sherlock. His hand had already slipped in between his legs.

John shook his head. “You’re too excited to be careful and I don’t want to miss the main event, do I?” He went back to Sherlock and stole a kiss. His fingers curled firmly around the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “So be a good boy for me.”

“Are you saying that I’m only allowed to masturbate with your permission?” asked Sherlock in mock indignation.

John gulped. He laid his hand on the front of Sherlock’s crisp white shirt. “Is that what you want me to say?” A tiny nod was all the answer he got, but it was enough to set John’s heart racing. He swallowed again and pinched Sherlock’s left nipple, bundling his cotton shirt up around the hard nub. “All right, from here on in you’re only allowed to wank when I say that you can.” He twisted Sherlock’s nipple. “I decide when, how and for how long, and you don’t lay a finger on yourself without my permission. Agreed?”

Defiance and relief warred in Sherlock’s lovely eyes. Then he nodded again, tilting his head forward so that the sun dappled his hair with copper. “Agreed.”

They had come to a similar arrangement once before, but this time John felt much more responsible. Much more involved in a curious sort of way because the emotional stakes were so much higher now.


	26. Part Four Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone they'd rather not see in the pub, a delivery and some Holmes family history.

John’s body language told Sherlock that he wanted to shove his chair back and walk out of the pub, but he stayed put. His guilty face had given the game away the instant he saw the woman. Now he glanced furtively across the bar to where his onetime fuck buddy sat with her family. “It’s not her that’s bothering me.” He rested his chin on his hand and looked across the table at Sherlock. “I don’t give a fuc – a damn about her. I’m just afraid that seeing her will open up all our old wounds again. God, if I’d lost you over her…” John seized Sherlock’s hand and interlaced their fingers. He rubbed his thumb over the white gleam of Sherlock’s knuckles.

“You didn’t,” said Sherlock shortly.

“So we can let it go then?” asked John more in hope than expectation. He looked briefly at the apparently happy family. “I never expected to see her here.”

“It’s a small village. There aren’t that many places to eat out.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand before he released it. He was here and his, that was all that mattered. “How was your breakfast?”

“Good.” John poured the dark dregs out of the teapot into their cups. “You should have gone for the full English.”

“I wasn’t that hungry.” Eggs and toast had been plenty for him. “Edging always blunts my appetite.”

“I should do a proper scientific study of the effects and write a paper for ‘The Lancet’,” joked John. He tapped the edge of Sherlock’s plate. “You can finish that up though, I don’t want you keeling over on me.”

Sherlock munched his way through a second slice of toast to please John and they both breathed a little easier when the woman and her family left without even glancing in their direction. John slumped back in his seat with a sigh of relief when the pub door closed after them. “Believe it or not I feel sorry for that poor sod she’s married to. It can’t be any fun having a wife who’d shag anything with a pulse.”

Sherlock smirked. “Well, she certainly doesn’t seem to be too choosy.”

“All right, I asked for that one.” John looked at his watch. “We had better make tracks. I’m expecting a parcel this afternoon.”

“What parcel? Is it for Mr Cock?”

“Keep your voice down,” hissed John. He glanced round, but no one appeared to have heard. “As to the parcel let’s just say that I’ve got more credit card than sense.”

Sherlock badgered him all the way back to the house, but John refused to be drawn on the contents of his mysterious delivery. When it arrived mid-afternoon it was a much smaller package than Sherlock had anticipated and one without any identifying marks on the outside. John whisked it away to his bedroom before Sherlock could deduce anything from the cardboard and packing tape.

“It’s staying there under lock and key.” he told Sherlock resolutely. Yet there was an intriguing smidgen of colour in his cheeks. “So you can forget about it for now.”

Sherlock put on his most ingratiating lost puppy look. “Can’t I have a tiny peek at the package?”

“No and if you keep asking I won’t let you wank today.”

Sherlock pouted. “I need to wank.”

“Then you had better behave yourself.” John looked out at the garden. “I think there’s a storm blowing up out there.”

“There will be one blowing up in here if you don’t let me masturbate soon.”

“I decide when, where, how and if you get to do it, remember?” John put on his severest expression. “So if you want to play with yourself you need to curb that sarcastic tongue of yours.”

Sherlock promptly threw himself down onto the blue sofa for a sulk. John rolled his eyes in exasperation and picked up yesterday’s newspaper.

“You’re just pretending to read,” said Sherlock five minutes later to the back of ‘The Times’.

John’s feet moved, brown shoes scuffed over navy carpet and left a tell-tale inch of fibres that bent the wrong way, but he didn’t answer.

Sherlock poked his tongue out at him. Then he rested his head on the back of the sofa. The woollen upholstery trickled the nape of his neck. There was a tiny draught as well, a kiss of air on his forehead. John had been right about the weather. It had started to cloud over on their way home and rain wasn’t far off.

He stared up at the blank white ceiling, a small cobweb clung to one corner and he saw a quick darting movement within it. Cobwebs in her corners would have horrified grandmamma.   Suddenly for one shame filled moment he thought that he was going to cry. Sherlock drew his breath in and released it slowly. His gaze fell on the photographs on the windowsill. He rose and went over to them without intending to do so.

“Where are you going?” asked John and Sherlock heard the paper crumple into his lap.

“Nowhere.” Unless it was on a trip down memory lane. Sherlock stared at the array of his family. The majority of them were long since dead. “We’re the only ones left now.”

“Who’s we?” John came to stand at his side.

“Mycroft, mummy, and myself, and father of course but he isn’t a Holmes by blood.”

“It’s more family than I’ve got, both my parents are dead.”

Sherlock hugged John offering silence comfort in place of dull platitudes. They leant into one another for a kiss. Then John took Sherlock’s hand. “I wondered about these photos the first time we came here, but I never got around to asking you about your family.”

“Ask now if you want to, I don’t mind.”

“Right, first question then, am I right in thinking that Holmes is your mum’s surname not your dad’s?”

“Yes, it is, but they are married.” Sherlock grinned. “I am not, contrary to popular opinion, a bastard.”

“That’s debatable,” laughed John. “Why did your mum keep her maiden name?”

“Family tradition, a simple method of ensuring that the Holmes family name doesn’t die out, although it will since neither Mycroft or I am likely to have children.” Sherlock picked up a black and white photograph of a young girl. “This is mummy at the age of nine.”

He watched John study the photo. His own gaze drifted away from the familiar photograph over the nape of John’s neck and down his spine to where his arse cheeks rounded out his jeans. No, he couldn’t get excited over bottoms, not even over John’s derriere.

“You’ve got her eyes,” said John. He put the picture back carefully on the white windowsill. The rain had started to drum against the glass and the garden drooped under the onslaught. “Weather for ducks,” he added before he pointed at a sepia photograph of an elderly couple in Victorian clothes. “Who were they?”

“Great-grandparents, grandmamma’s mother and father.” Sherlock smiled. “He was a fish merchant from Hull who made a fortune in the herring trade, but that wasn’t good enough for grandmamma. She always claimed to be the daughter of a French nobleman. That said there is aristocratic French blood on my great-grandmother’s side.”

John gave him a quizzical look. “How aristocratic?”

“Aristocratic enough for my ancestors to have fled the French revolution to live in genteel poverty in the Midlands, apart one unfortunate great, great, something or the other, aunt who didn’t avoid madam guillotine. There’s a small portrait of her in the attic if you’d like to see it.”

“I’d like that,” said John. He kissed Sherlock. “Thanks.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“For everything, for letting me into your life and for sharing your family history with me” John blinked rapidly. “Now for god’s sake let’s get on with it before I go all mushy.”

*

The attic was a dusty treasure trove. Rain ran down the dirty windows streaking them with mud and casting a pall of gloom which they dispelled with candles since there was no electricity under the eaves.

“I suppose you used to come up here when you were a boy,” said John.

“Grandmamma always kept it locked.” Sherlock rummaged through the contents of a mouldy hatbox which was balanced on a stack of evil smelling books. “Mycroft stole the key once and she was furious with him.”   He glanced over his shoulder at John. “You could always help me look.”

“What am I looking for?”

“An oval portrait about so big,” Sherlock spread his hands to indicate the size he meant, “of a young woman in late eighteenth century dress, you’ll recognise it when you see it.”

In the event it was Sherlock who unearthed his ancestor’s portrait while John was examining some rusty military metals from the Crimean war. He handed the portrait to John with a bow that was made more elegant by the old top hat he had planted on his head at a jaunty angle. “There she is.”

John took the gilt framed portrait over to the skylight so that it was illuminated by the last gasp of daylight as well as by the soft candle glow. “She was a pretty girl.”

“Until they decapitated her.” Sherlock sat on the floor with his back to an old iron bound trunk. He patted the mucky floorboards. “Sit down and I’ll tell you a family legend, one that frightened me when I was very young.”

“Anything that scared you has to be worth hearing.” John lowered himself to the floor and crossed his legs at the ankle. He looked at Sherlock’s head. “Although I’d take it more seriously if you weren’t wearing that stupid hat.”

“I thought it was rather becoming.”

“That’s because you’re a vain git.”

Sherlock put the topper down on the floor next to him. “It was Mycroft who told the story to be when I was about six, just because he’d been warned that I was too young to hear it. Mademoiselle Claudine was only twenty-two when she died and not at all courageous. You might expect a Holmes to die well, but she had to be carried screaming to the guillotine. It is said that even some of the hardened revolutionary mob pitied her.” Sherlock steepled his long fingers in an unconscious attitude of prayer. “She was still begging for mercy when the blade came crashing down to severe her head. It was a clean and instantaneous decapitation, and her head rolled across the ground still crying out brokenly for help.”

“That’s impossible,” said John.

Sherlock hid a smile when he felt John move a fraction closer to him. “Most modern medical opinion would concur, nevertheless it isn’t the only story of that nature. There are numerous reports of severed heads that blinked, grimaced or tried to speak, at least for a few seconds after decapitation, and some of them are remarkably well documented.”

“So are sightings of UFOs but that doesn’t mean that aliens exist,” retorted John. “I can understand you being scared when you were six, but surely you can’t give it any credence now?”

“In the absence of any definitive evidence I don’t entirely discount the theory that enough residual oxygen might remain in the brain to allow it to go on functioning for a brief time after being cleanly and quickly separated from the body.”

John twisted round to face him in the shadowy attic. “Even if that were true the sudden catastrophic drop in blood pressure would render the victim unconscious for those final few seconds before brain death occurred. Any twitches or blinks during that time would just be meaningless muscle spasms not an indication of continuing awareness.”

“I should have had you around when I was six.” Sherlock leant towards John as if he were about to kiss him. “Boo!” he said loudly and burst out laughing when John jumped.

“Actually you are a bastard,” declared John. “Did you just make that whole story up?”

“No, and it honestly did give me nightmares as a child.” Sherlock drew John back down next to him. “Mummy had to let me sleep with the light on for a month afterwards.   Then I decided to face my fears and started bringing dead birds home to dissect.”

“I suppose that explains the body parts in the fridge,” said John. “Mycroft has got a lot to answer for.”

Sherlock smiled at that and tilted John’s head back for a lazy kiss that lengthened into a passionate meeting of mouths. When he raised his head slightly John linked his arm around his neck and plundered his mouth again. Once they finally left of kissing in order to breathe John traced the outline of his lips with his index finger. “I must be getting old,” he said, “because I’d rather take you to bed than make love on the attic floor by candlelight.”

“We could take the candles downstairs,” said Sherlock.

“Bring the topper as well.” John handed it to him. “It actually looks quite fetching and it would look even better if you weren’t wearing anything else.”

 


	27. Part Four Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An emotional wobble, a bouncy bottom and a decision which makes Sherlock rather happy...

It rained in the early hours of the morning; a persistent drizzle had darkened the flagstones on the terrace and dampened the lawn. Sherlock curled his toes into the dewy blades of grass, enjoying the soothing coolness. His arousal had woken him yet again while the rain was still patterning the window. The first time John had thrown an arm across him and murmured sleepy words of comfort, but he had slept through Sherlock’s other abrupt awakenings from lurid erotic dreams.

While he lay awake with his morning wood trapped in its steel prison John had snored in wine induced oblivion. Even a sharp nudge in the ribs had only produced a grunt, so Sherlock had left him to it and slipped out of bed. He’d gone downstairs with his cock cage locked in place. It still felt strange and heavy, and it was bloody uncomfortable when he got hard, but he was grateful for it.

Sherlock fingered the cold metal spiral. He would have climaxed in the night if it hadn’t been for its painful constriction, not that he was going to admit that to John when he eventually surfaced. Sherlock frowned in sudden irritation. He didn’t like being dependant on the device. Next time he’d have to wean himself off it somehow. Next time? Dear god, was he seriously thinking of ever repeating this experiment?

Why not? It wasn’t as if he wasn’t enjoying it.

Last night had been the antithesis of the previous evening. The atmosphere had been laden with testosterone combined with alcohol and sizzling beeswax. It was razor sharp, red as the vintage wine John swigged from the bottle, red as the erection that jutted out between Sherlock’s trembling thighs.

Lust had burnt more fiercely than the dozen candles that had distorted the darkness.

Sherlock had knelt where the light fell in a flickering pool, naked apart from that absurd top hat. He had tested the cord that bound his hands behind his back and it had held fast. It was twisted and tied so that it bit into his wrists every time he squirmed, impatient for freedom and desperate for orgasm. Just five or six swift strokes would have brought him to shaking, screaming release, but he couldn’t touch himself and John wasn’t about to oblige.

It might have been cruel, a torment beyond endurance and so it was, yet he was aware of the dichotomy within himself. Heart pounding, muzzy with wine and frantic arousal, he had begged John to let him come and pleaded with him to stop when ejaculation was imminent.

Sherlock paused beneath a rain kissed lilac tree. He laughed softly to himself. The previous night had been incredible. He had been right on the brink of orgasm with every nerve in his body hotwired to his groin. It had been a fantastic feeling. He slipped his finger in to stroke himself between two of the steel ribs of the cage. “You’re going to have to be patient. I’m having far too much fun to let you have your own way.”

His cock twitched, asserting its needs and he closed his eyes to savour the rush of arousal. Four more days to wait and he wouldn’t allow himself to come before then. What Mr Cock yearned for, the basic biology that pushed him towards orgasm, should be secondary to his will. “I’m in charge here, not you.” He poked his little finger between the bars to tease his cockhead just to prove that he could. “Oh, that’s nice.”

Sherlock looked back at the house. It was still all quiet.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, the fervency of their love-making he was relieved to have some time and space for himself. He wasn’t accustomed to being with another human being twenty-four seven, which explained the itchy impatience that had nothing to do with his unsatisfied sexual urges.

He wanted to get away for a little while, to spread his wings in solitary splendour. He hoped that John would understand his need for solitude, but whether he did or not John would have to give him room to breathe otherwise this new found intimacy would never last.

And the last thing he wanted was to lose John. That would be unbearable. They would have to reach a compromise. Still brooding on that unfamiliar concept Sherlock ducked under the trees. He wove his way down to the shady leafy places where he couldn’t be seen from the house.

There he had to stop briefly answer another of his body’s demands and it wasn’t nearly as easy to pee in a chastity cage as the manufacturers claimed it was. Sherlock giggled, amused by his own undignified antics.   He would have had John in hysterics.

Still smiling he walked on until he reached the old stone gazebo. The concrete bench was rough on his bare bum so he sat on the grass with his elbows resting on the seat. It was very quiet with just the far-off chirp of a bird to be heard. He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. After a few moments he began to stroke the soft skin on his stomach. His cock moved in its cage. “No,” he breathed. “Wait.”

It couldn’t compel him to fondle it and he couldn’t release it from its cage. The key was still in the bedroom, although he had made sure that he knew exactly where it was given John’s intoxicated state. Sherlock laughed. He would pretend that he didn’t know and see if John remembered. He could guilt trip him about sleeping through as well and offer him a nice fried breakfast to go with his hangover.

Everything always seemed to come back to John.

Sherlock stared down at his metal encased cock. Dependence seemed to be becoming a part of life and he wasn’t entirely sure if he liked it. He had made himself so vulnerable last night, so needy, groaning and begging. And he had started to rely to John to take charge of the situation when his resolve weakened. He had never needed anyone like that before, but he’d never gone twenty-seven dayswithout an orgasm before either.

He lifted his head proudly, that was quite an achievement. A personal best that few men would be able to equal. He patted his caged cock. “You’ve still got to wait until Sunday. Then I’ll let John bring you off.”   That image sent a jolt of lust through him and brought disjointed memories of his dreams to mind. His cock swelled, bulging out between the steel rings and jerking upwards.

Lust ached in his bones, but Sherlock refused to touch himself. He had made a promise to John and he intended to keep it.

*

Observation was the key, but Sherlock couldn’t find much that was worth observing on the windy seafront. Cloud loomed menacingly above the churned-up waves and most people had headed for the cafes and amusement arcades. Only he and a few other hardy souls remained on the promenade.

There was nothing to interest him here, but Sherlock wasn’t going to admit that he was bored and lonely. He sat back on the black iron bench, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and crossed his long legs at the ankle. Something had to happen in a minute, something more exciting than an elderly couple with a poodle discussing what to have for tea. God, this was tedious. He fingered his phone, trying to invent a reason to ring John, but there wasn’t one that wouldn’t make him look pathetic.

John had been irritatingly fine about his few hours alone. “Take as much time as you need,” he had said, “but there’s just one stipulation…”

Sherlock cast a jaundiced eye over the crotch of his trousers. The chastity cage wasn’t visible from the outside, but he was well aware that it was there. It made him feel wonderfully decadent. Yet even the thrill of imagining people’s reactions if they knew what lay hidden under his smart clothes had worn thin.

What did he care what people thought of him anyway? John’s opinion was the only one that counted.

Sherlock touched his jacket pocket and felt the corner of a small solid box. It had been a silly impulse buy and he wasn’t sure what John’s opinion of it would be. Unlike him John wasn’t even all that keen on surprises. Surprises? Sherlock sat bolt upright. How the devil had he managed to forget about that little box which had arrived yesterday? It must still be hidden in John’s bedroom, waiting for him to rip it open like a child on Christmas morning. He grabbed his mobile and sent John a text. “I want to know what’s in the box. SH.’

Whatever it was he liked it already. It was the perfect excuse to leave his godforsaken dump and go home to John.

*

He found the sight of John’s white bottom going up and down far more amusing than erotic. John was really getting into it though, pumping vigorously into the fleshlight he had wedged between his mattress and the base of the bed. He was also muttering away to himself. “Fuck, god, yeah, fuck.”

Sherlock smiled. It was hardly Shakespeare, but it seemed to be getting the job done if that bouncing bottom was anything to go by. Prompted by his own inner imp he rapped smartly on the open bedroom door. “Good afternoon.”

John jumped right out of his fleshlight, whirling towards him with a stricken look on his face. “Sherlock, you dickhead!” John’s features relaxed. “Did you have to sneak up on me like that? You weren’t even supposed to be back until this evening.”

“It rained and they ran out of candy floss.” Sherlock advanced into the room. “Besides I want my present, it looks as if you’ve already got yours.”

“I just fancied having another go at it.” John blushed. “It seemed like too good an opportunity to waste.”

Sherlock stroked his shoulder. “Don’t let me stop you.”

John’s gaze flicked back to the fleshlight. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock bent down to kiss him. Then he took his jacket off and hung it over a chair before he stripped all the way down to his cock cage. By the time he finished John’s penis had recovered from its shock and was standing out straight from his groin. John patted the cornflower blue bedspread. “Sit here, next to me.”

The mattress dipped when he sat on it and the old springs cracked. Outside the rain had swept in across the fields and Sherlock clicked the table lamp on to dispel the gloom. He sat upright on the edge of the bed. “You can lean on me if you want to.”

“Thanks.” John cracked a smile. “You’d be in my bloody way if I didn’t.” He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s right knee. “I feel stupid, fucking a plastic tube in front of you.”

“Why should you be embarrassed when you consider all the things you’ve seen me do with my cock?” replied Sherlock. “Look at it now.” Bottoms might not do anything for him, but John’s prominent erection and adorably self-conscious expression had Mr Cock straining against the bars of his prison.

“He always has to get in on the act,” said John in mock exasperation.

“This is your show, not mine,” Sherlock told him.

“Okay.” John knee-walked across the carpet until the tip of his erection bumped into the pink head of the fleshlight. “Here goes.” He bent his knees to get the angle right and let out a long sigh when his cock slid into the toy. “I was almost busting a nut before.” He gripped Sherlock’s thigh and pushed all the way in. “So this shouldn’t take long.”

“Take all the time you like.” Sherlock brushed his fingers across John’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Give me a kiss then,” whispered John. He craned his neck and their mouths met in loving passion. Then John folded his arms across Sherlock’s bare thighs and pillowed his head on them. “Ahhh, that’s a relief.” He wriggled his hips, pulled back and slid forward. “Fuck, yes…”

Sherlock clasped the back of John’s skull, messaging his scalp. He caressed John’s bowed shoulders with his left hand; sweat glimmered John’s skin, his shoulder blades rocked and his muscles quivered with every thrust of his pelvis. His harsh breathing filled the narrow room.

“Is it good?” whispered Sherlock because he wanted to hear John’s voice.

“What do you…” John ground into the fleshlight. “I don’t know how you last – Fuck, god, fuck…”

Sherlock squeezed his shoulder. “Try to stop for a moment.”

“What the hell for?” John shuddered to a halt with his cock buried to the hilt in the fleshlight. “Christ, it’s tight.” He squirmed against it. “I’m dying down here. Are you okay up there?”

“I’ll live.” His groin ached abominably, but this wasn’t about him. It was for John; who fumbled for his hand and interlocked their fingers before he started to thrust again.   They found the perfect tempo, a clench and squeeze of their hands which synchronized with John’s stabbing thrusts.

Sherlock bent over him to rain kisses onto his hair and face. “Talk to me, John.”

“I can’t...” John’s head rolled on Sherlock’s knees. “God, yes!” He jerked forward into the fleshlight. “Yeah, fuck, more…ahh…”

Sherlock licked his earlobe. “Tell me.”

“I can’t hold a bloody conversation!” John groaned. His thrusts were sharp and erratic. “Just shut – Oh god, fuck, yes.” His fingers scrabbled and clawed at Sherlock’s hand. “I’m going to…coming. I’m coming!”

“Don’t -” Sherlock realised that it was too late, that nothing was going to stop it now. His hand was being crushed and John was shaking in the throes of orgasm. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

“I love you.” John collapsed with his head still in Sherlock’s lap. “God, Sherlock.” He sounded dazed. “I never realised it could be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Almost – no, not almost, better than the real thing.” John hauled himself up and flopped back onto the bed. He pressed Sherlock’s knuckles to his lips. “I could give up women for that. For you.”

“You don’t have to.” Sherlock wouldn’t allow himself to hope. Shattered promises would break his heart.

“I want to.” There were two high spots of colour on John’s cheeks. “I always thought that using a sex toy to get off was the last refuge of the lonely and the inadequate. A very poor substitute for the real thing, but today it felt incredible and that was because of you.” Helooked even more embarrassed. “I was thinking about it while you out, thinking about you which is what got me horny in the first place.   And I want us to be exclusive.” A cheeky grin bloomed on his face. “What do I need anyone else for when I’ve got Sherlock Holmes?”

“What indeed?” Now it was Sherlock who blushed, ridiculously happy and somewhat amazed by this turn of events.

John ran the back of his hand over Sherlock’s cheek and then spoilt the moment by yawning his head off. “God, I’m knackered. Do you mind if I have a snooze?”

“Of course not.”

“Come here then.” John pulled him down beside him, into a cosy embrace on the single bed. He yawned again. “Five minutes to get my breath back and then I’ll find that key for you.”   He snuggled up to Sherlock and fell asleep.

 


	28. Part Four Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor...

Sherlock watched his eyelashes flutter and the faint outward gush of his breath was followed by a less than dignified grunt. He smoothed John’s hair back, simply for the pleasure of doing so rather than because it needed settling into place. John was adorable. He’d tell him that when he woke up and watch him blush and bluster. He had been so damn sexy, humping away as if his life depended on it, crying out and clinging to his hand. Sherlock wriggled on the bed, overwhelmed with arousal and tender affection. He grimaced and put his hand over his painfully trapped erection. John Watson had a lot to answer for.

He shut his eyes, determined to lose himself in sleep, but it eluded him and he stayed awake with his cock aching in its cage. The rain had begun again, a furious splattering against the windows that filled the room with a gloomy fake twilight. Sherlock rolled onto his back and decided to forget about sleep. Even if he managed to doze off he would only dream about sex.

They were taking afternoon tea on the terrace. Grandmamma pressed finger sandwiches and freshly baked scones upon him, ignoring him when he insisted that he wasn’t hungry. Sherlock crossed his legs, ashamed and self-conscious in her presence, hoping against hope that the white tablecloth and his black trousers would conceal the tell-tale outline of the chastity cage.

She was not to be deceived. “You haven’t got an erection, have you, Cherie?” Grandmamma lifted the teapot and her lace cuffs flopped back to reveal the bare bones of her wrist. “Mycroft thought it was so funny last time.” She was all black gums and carnivorous teeth when her putrid face split into a smile.

Sherlock woke on the verge of tears. Horror struck and choked by regret for all the long years of estrangement. A moment later the memory of her betrayal drowned his grief in bitterness.

John’s peaceful slumber irritated him now. Sherlock recognised that it was an unfair and irrational annoyance which did nothing to improve his mood. He pulled away from John and slammed the bedroom on his way out for good measure. John’s startled exclamation was cut off by the thud of the wood into the frame.

Sherlock stopped, full of furious energy that lacked an outlet. He wanted to hit something and he glowered at the floral walls, aching to smash their twee prettiness into broken plaster. The impact dented the wall and pain shot up his arm to lodge in his right shoulder. It had never seen quite the same since he had dislocated it. If John had put it back into place for him immediately instead of arsing about trying to get to him to go to A&E it might have healed properly.

It wasn’t fair to blame John, but whoever said that life was fair? He went over to the window, but there was no comfort in the windswept garden. The storm bowed lilacs mocked him with the memory of his foolish indiscretion.   He huddled on the window seat, with his arm wrapped around his drawn up knees. Sherlock rested his forehead on the cold glass, so he heard the bedroom door and saw John in distorted reflection first. “Fuck off.”

“Not until I know what’s wrong.” John sounded worried. “Why are you crying? And why is there a dent in the wall?”

Sherlock’s bruised hand throbbed dully and his bruised ego cringed. It had been an infantile overreaction. He rubbed away his tell-tale tears. “I’m not and I don’t like the wallpaper.”

“So change it. It’s your house.”

“And what about the things I can’t change?” Sherlock turned to face John. “I had a nightmare about her – grandmamma – we were having tea and she was dead; dead and still laughing at me.”

John didn’t laugh. He put his arms around Sherlock and drew him close. “Nightmares are a bitch.”

“So was she,” said Sherlock with a very shaky laugh. He rested his head on John’s midriff and slid one hand up until it rested over his heartbeat. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“Not a problem.” John kissed his hair. “I’ll take a look at your hand in a minute.”

It stung when John dabbed the scrapes and bruises with antiseptic, but the first aid was lovingly administered. John’s gentle care was a balm to his wounded soul as well as to his damaged hand. They went to bed early and Sherlock’s sleep was deep and dreamless.

*

The weather was as unpredictable as ever the next morning. A walk in the August sunshine resulted in them getting soaked to the skin by an unexpected downpour. After that they declared it a day for staying indoors. A day for sexual horseplay that drove Sherlock to glorious distraction. After a couple of close calls they decided to drop the erotic games in favour of some quiet time together.

“I’m never going to let you cook again, those steaks were burnt on the outside and raw in the middle” murmured John sleepily.   It was a little after ten o clock at night and they were lying naked on the sofa. It had been an evening of kisses and bad jokes, of cuddles and honeyed words.

Sherlock nudged John in the ribs. “You had better make the coffee then.”

“What did your last slave die of?” grumbled John as he rolled off the sofa. “I suppose you want biscuits as well?”

“Chocolate gingers please.” Sherlock piled the cushions up and watched John walk across the room. He focused on the rounded globes of John’s buttocks, but the sight didn’t rouse more than a sliver of interest. There was no doubt about it, he just wasn’t a bum person.

When John disappeared into the kitchen Sherlock hooked one arm behind his head and closed his eyes. There was the whisper of the well-oiled cupboard door and the snap of the biscuit tin lid. Mugs tapped onto the granite work top and the kettle switch clicked down. You should have done that first, John, but you - A dark shadow moved across his closed eyelids and vanished into yellow lamplight before he could sit up. Sherlock stared at the uncurtained window opposite the sofa. There was nothing to see apart from a spider’s web of wisteria, but he hadn’t mistaken that footfall on the stone terrace. He looked at the open kitchen door. Oh, this was going to be interesting.

The back door handle turned.

“What the fuck-” exclaimed John. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, one could say that one was just passing, but that’s highly unlikely, is it not?” said Mycroft.

“Go away,” shouted Sherlock from the lounge.

“Unfortunately I need to talk to you, brother dear.” Mycroft came into the lounge, very dapper as usual in his three piece suit and not in the least perturbed by the sight that greeted him. “You should have replied to my texts.”

Sherlock stuck his jaw out. “I did.”

“Piss off wasn’t a terribly helpful response,” said Mycroft drily.

“It was good advice though,” said John from behind him. He had grabbed a pair of pyjama trousers from the laundry basket, but they were Sherlock’s blue ones and they hid his feet as well as his assets.

Mycroft looked him up and down. “You shouldn’t have bothered to dress on my account, especially not as it seems that we are apparently all family now.”

“In my family we don’t go around showing our googlies off,” said John pugnaciously.  

“Take heed, Sherlock, in case you offend.” Mycroft helped himself to the armchair nearest the fireplace.

“Oh, John isn’t offended, quite the opposite in fact.” Sherlock sat up. “Why are you here?”

“Money matters, I’m afraid.” Mycroft turned his head to look at John. “I can’t stand instant coffee so I’ll have earl grey with a slice of lemon.”

“You’ll have PG Tips and think yourself bloody lucky to get it.” John stomped off back into the kitchen.

“How sweet,” said Mycroft. “John would like to tell me to take the advice in your text, yet he doesn’t want to cause further trouble between us by refusing to get my tea.”

“John is a paragon of virtue and restraint,” said Sherlock sarcastically.

“I can hear you,” shouted John from the kitchen.

They waited until he came back with a loaded tea tray and a dressing gown thrown over his arm. “Here.” He tossed it neatly to Sherlock.

“Thank you.” Sherlock flung it onto the armchair and he saw John roll his eyes. He moved over and patted the cushion next to him. “Come and sit down.” He ignored the look John gave him as he sat on the edge of the sofa. There was nothing on display that Mycroft hadn’t seen before, but he still hoped that talking to Mr Cock would make his brother a teeny bit uncomfortable.

“So what do you want?” John asked Mycroft.

“Firstly I must apologise for interrupting your dalliance.” Mycroft focused on Sherlock. “A dalliance rather than anything more adult since you are obviously still playing endurance games with your penis.”

Sherlock refused to be embarrassed. “You didn’t come here to talk about Mr Cock.”

“Mr – how infantile.” Mycroft regarded them both with a jaundiced eye. “If you would both be good enough to pretend to be adults I’ll make this brief. Have you made a decision about the future of this house, Sherlock?”

“No.” Sherlock refrained from adding ‘and I wouldn’t tell you if I had’ that was just too childish.

“In that case you need to make a decision very shortly.”

“Why does he?” asked John.

“Inheritance tax.” Mycroft leant forward to claim his tea, sniffed it and sipped it rather as if he suspected poison. “There are three ways of satisfying the Inland Revenue.”

Sherlock tried to keep a straight face when he saw John’s expression. He was trying to convince himself that Mycroft hadn’t put an ironic, sultry intonation onto the word ‘satisfying’, which of course he had. Sherlock sat back and flung his arm casually around John’s tense shoulders. “And my alternatives are?”

“I’m sure that you’re as aware of them as I am, but I will reiterate as you seem to be incapable of reaching a decision. “ Mycroft set his mug down and gazed at them for a moment before he shook his head slightly. “Number one you sell this house and use the proceeds to finance your tax liability. However, if you choose to keep it there are two further options. You can liquidate grandmamma’s assets and use the monies she left to pay the death duties. There should be sufficient to cover the amount due, but there would be precious little left. If you wish to retain the bonds and the shares the final option would to be payment of the tax in annual instalments.”

“That sounds like the best idea,” said John to Sherlock. He looked across at Mycroft. “Roughly how much would these instalments be?”

Sherlock piped Mycroft at the post. “£31,200 plus compound interest at eight percent.” This time he couldn’t help giggling at John’s amazed and horrified expression. “Did you ever think that brother Mycroft was going to be the bearer of glad tidings?”

“Not bloody likely. Have you got that kind of money?”

“Would he ever have been seeking a flatmate if he had?” asked Mycroft. “If you are going to be a homeowner, there will of course be other expenses to take into account, insurance, utilities, council tax and electricity to name but a few.”

“God, you’re boring,” declared Sherlock. “You ought to have been an accountant. Maybe you would have been better at that than you are at lying. That tax isn’t even due until November so why are you really here?”

Mycroft’s expression was one of deep introspection tinged with regret. “You always seek the unobtainable, Sherlock,” he said without any hint of malice. “Why must you be forever tilting at windmills? There is no perfection in this flawed world of ours and very often no rhyme or reason either.”

“Meaning?” Sherlock’s brows were knitted in suspicion.

“Meaning that you attempt to make sense of everyone and everything, to unravel life as if it some extraordinary game of pass the parcel, but you fail to comprehend the full extent of human frailty.”

“Human frailty is his stock in trade,” objected John.

“Indeed it is, but he constantly refuses to apply his logic conclusions either to himself or for that matter to you.” Mycroft looked directly at Sherlock. “Not even your beloved John’s prefect, you know.”

“I never thought that he was.” That was no less than the truth. He knew all John’s weaknesses and doubts, knew his quick stubborn temper and his talent for self-deception, and he still loved him. “I don’t believe that you came here to dole out relationship advice.”

“Of course not, I’m a great believer in letting you make your own mistakes,” said Mycroft disdainfully. Then he sighed. “However, some mistakes need to be rectified. I sent you a text a few days ago that was open to misinterpretation.”

“Oh, I think that your meaning was quite clear.” Sherlock steepled his fingers, pressing the sides of his index fingers into his lips. The nervous gesture didn’t go unobserved and he quickly lowered his hands. He wanted that dressing gown now, but he was damned if he would give in and reach for it. “She had no right to tell you about that.”

“I should not have taunted you about it. However-”

“Just go,” snarled Sherlock. He didn’t want to hear excuses and lies, and he didn’t want to confront the wound grandmamma had inflicted with her disloyalty.

John closed his hand around Sherlock’s forearm. “Give him a break,” he said.

Sherlock saw his own surprise momentarily reflected in Mycroft’s face. “What the hell for?”

“Because he’s right about one thing, we all screw up sometimes.” John patted Sherlock on the knee before he stood up and went across to the window. “I made a right balls up of it with Harry that day we went to York. I haven’t got a bloody clue where she is or how she’s doing.   She could be lying dead on a mortuary slab for all I know.” He picked up a framed photograph. “My mum used a have a picture of us as kids on Southend beach. I’m about eight and I’m helping little Harriet to make a sandcastle. That was when things were good.” He brought the photo back to Sherlock. “We all have good moments, the difficult bit is hanging onto them when we grow up and everything goes shit shaped.”

It was that photograph of course; the one of the boy Mycroft gazing down adoringly at his baby brother. “This isn’t relevant.” Sherlock meant to put the silly thing down, but it stayed where it was clasped between his hands. “We were just children then.”

“It’s not you knowing that he shagged a tree that upsets him,” said John to Mycroft. “It’s the fact that your granny broke her promise to him, that’s what really rankles.”

Mycroft nodded and gave him a bare smile. He waited until John had resumed his place on the sofa beside Sherlock before he spoke. “As I said one should not judge too harshly or hastily. Grandmamma loved you, far more than she loved me, even more than she loved mummy. You were the apple of her eye.   I was a poor substitute, even after your estrangement when I was all that she had.”

“He’s putting himself on the line here,” whispered John.

Sherlock shrugged as if he didn’t care and put the photo on the coffee table. “Go on.”

“Doubtless you remember her as she was when you were seventeen.” Mycroft sighed. “You don’t know how old and frail she became, although I won’t pretend that she had dementia or some such nonsense. She had, to quote that odd expression of hers, all her chairs at home.” He put his index finger to his temple for a second to illustrate what he meant. “Yet she was vulnerable and lonely. She missed you dreadfully, but she was too proud and stubborn to allow me to send for you.”

Sherlock imagined her huddled in her bed with an aching grief in her ancient grey eyes. “What’s that got to do with anything?”   He turned his pain on John who had draped his dressing gown over his bare shoulders. “I don’t need a nursemaid either.”

“Okay, okay.” John spread his hands. “There’s no need to bite my head off.”

“The fool loves you, Sherlock,” said Mycroft mildly. “It is something people seem to make a habit of doing and grandmamma was no exception. She confided in me because I had been complaining about one of your more recent exploits and above all else because it gave her an excuse to talk about you. There was no real malice in her.”

“What about you? What’s your excuse for sending that text?” demanded John.

“He doesn’t have one.” Sherlock wrapped the dressing gown around himself. “I would have done the same thing had our positions been reversed.” His gaze met Mycroft’s, despite a lifetime of sibling rivalry and sneering comments they understood one another. “Have a safe journey home, brother dear.”

Mycroft took his cue. “I’ll leave you two to your childish games.” He stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Do you know I don’t think it ever occurred to grandmamma that I might think less of her for betraying your confidence.” He scooped the photograph up off the coffee table. “May I?”

“Take it. I don’t want it.” Sherlock let his face soften into a smile. “I’ll phone you when I get back to London.”

“Yes, please do.” Mycroft blinked away his introspection and wished John good-night. “I’ll show myself out.”

He left through the kitchen and stood for a long moment on the terrace. The photograph had disappeared into a pocket, doubtless never to me seen or mentioned again. Sherlock saw him cup his hands around a frail wind-blown flame and then the pinprick glow of a cigarette. Mycroft only ever smoked when he was upset. Then he moved and was absorbed in the darkness well before he reached the garden gate.


	29. Part Four Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even a month doesn't last forever...

The sadness lingered and Sherlock strained his eyes to catch one last glimpse of his brother. He jumped when John slipped his arm around his waist. “What a pair of sentimental twats.” John kissed his cheek. “Seriously, has that made you feel better about things? The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but at least Mycroft bothered to come down here and maybe your granny wasn’t such an old battle-axe either.”

“Perhaps not,” said Sherlock. “She would have been furious with you though.”

John put his hands on Sherlock’s silk covered hips. “For corrupting her gorgeous grandson?”

Sherlock hugged him and kissed the soft skin beneath his right ear. “For having the audacity to call her granny.” The vibration of their laughter echoed back through John’s close pressed body and suddenly Sherlock was fiercely aroused again. “Oh fuck.”

John chuckled. “Hello, Mr Cock. I’m sure Mycroft was trying not to crack up when he was telling us how infantile we are.”

“Mycroft doesn’t have a sense of humour. It was surgically removed along with his tonsils when he was six.”

“Well he needs one having you for a brother. The Addams Family has nothing on your lot.” John gave Sherlock a squeeze round the middle. “Have you decided yet what you’re going to do about the house?”

Sherlock lay back so that his head rested comfortably on John’s shoulder. That spider web was still there, weaving across the corner. He tried to envisage it swept away and this room utterly changed, modern and monotone, and full of strangers. Resentment shook him like a rat in its jaws and he felt the sharp bite of grief. “I’m keeping it.”

“Good.” John patted the sofa arm with his free hand. “I was always moving from place to place in the army. It’ll be nice to have somewhere to call home.”

Sherlock smiled to himself. It pleased him to hear that John regarded this house as home, that he thought of himself as belonging to it and hence to him. “Of course if the Diogenes Club deal goes through we’ll have Mycroft living virtually next door.”

“There goes the neighbourhood,” quipped John. He lifted Sherlock’s hand to his lips. “Shall we tuck Mr Cock up in his cage and call it a day?”

It was only a little after eleven, but Sherlock felt pleasantly weary despite his sexual frustrations. He imagined Mycroft driving back to London and wondered if he too felt purified by their conversation. He thought of his grandmamma, of her wicked tongue and the merry twinkle in her blue-grey eyes. “I loved her,” he whispered.

“Now tell me something that I didn’t know.” John kissed Sherlock’s hand. “Come on you, it’s bedtime.”

*

On Friday they stayed at home all day and on Saturday John dragged him off to the Brooklands Museum; aircraft, buses and cars and a 1931 Grindley motorcycle Sherlock had decided to bid for when it came up for auction in a few weeks. It was the very epitome of style and craftsmanship from the curve of its burnished engine casing to the stylised kite-shaped mudguards and he had been captivated by it much to John’s amusement.

He closed his eyes to savour the illusionary sensation of speed, the feel of black leather trousers stretched over his bulging groin and of John pressed up against his arse, arms locked around his waist with the vibration of the engine pulsing through their thighs.

A sensual shiver swept over him. Everything was sexual at the moment from an imaginary motorcycle ride to the rough wool of the chair back under his hand.

Sunday.

Day thirty-one.

The much anticipated end of his journey.

“You can get off whenever, wherever and however you want,” John had said in the first ripple of morning sunlight across their bedroom floor. He ran his fingers over the steel ribs of the chastity cage Sherlock had worn all night. “I can unlock this and bring you off here and now if that’s what you’d like, you only have to ask.”

Sherlock hadn’t asked. Not while they exchanged ardent kisses in tangled sheets or when John had released his cock from its prison. The tantalising throb of his arousal was a perverse indulgence in its self and he basked shamelessly in his achievement. A month. An entire month. And today was the day the teddy bears had their picnic. He had chosen not to race towards it though, not least because of the uncertainty that lurked beneath his lust and self-congratulation.

Where would he and John go from here? What form would their unconventional sex life take? And how would they fare when they returned to Baker Street and their everyday lives?

He looked around the lounge. There were no answers amongst the jumble of Sunday newspapers, mugs half-filled with cold coffee.   John’s laptop stood open on the coffee table. They had used it to find out about the motorcycle auction and then to watch porn vids which had brought him to the verge of orgasm. He could have surrendered then, but he hadn’t.

Sherlock frowned at the pale sunlight which filled all the nooks and crannies with gossamer grey shadows. It had been his intention to wait until the evening, but sunset was still two hours away and his nerves were strung out like piano wires, taut with arousal, anticipation, and apprehension, and he simply couldn’t stand the tension any longer.

He needed to initiate the end game, to trust himself to John’s tender ministrations and to believe in the strength of their love.

*

John was surprised when Sherlock asked for slow, for as slow as he could possibly make it. Not that he had any objection. This grand finale merited much more than a quick hand-job, although John’s cock jumped eagerly when he imagined bringing Sherlock to a rapid and intense orgasm. This wasn’t about him though. This was for his lover.

The sofa didn’t open up into a bed so he had spread a double duvet and a heap of pillows across the lounge floor.   John rubbed his hands on his thighs, feeling a flutter of anxious excitement in the pit of his stomach. It was up to him to get this right for both their sakes.

John crawled across the duvet and sat next to Sherlock on their makeshift bed. “Comfortable?”

“What do you think?” Sherlock flexed his hips. He was wearing black boxer shorts and they were already tented out by his erection. “I could do with some attention here.”

“Oh, you’ll get it - eventually.” John bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a nervous giggle. He ghost walked his fingers through Sherlock’s fringe. “There’s no need to rush.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.” Sherlock rolled a fraction to the right and then back again. “Touch me.”

“Talk first, touch later.”

“What the hell do you want to talk about?”

John hadn’t got a bloody clue. He trawled his mind for a topic of conversation. “Tell me about your first sexual experience, the very first one you remember.”

“Christ…” Sherlock let his breath out in a low hiss. “There was a rocking horse, a big Edwardian one, in the playroom and I’d make it go as fast as it could. Then I’d slide forward and lock my legs around its painted chest so that my cock was wedged up against its neck. I loved the sensations that gave me, but I don’t remember ever coming from it. I think I must have been too young.” He looked at John. “What about you?”

“A vague memory of being in a bedroom – it wasn’t mum and dad’s, we must have been visiting somewhere – and finding a porno mag. I can see myself standing there with my hand down my shorts, but I don’t recall what happened after that.” John traced the shape of Sherlock’s collarbone. “What about the best orgasm you’ve ever had?”

“Now there’s a question guaranteed to take my mind off things.” Sherlock let droll irony soften into a smile when John grinned. “I was twenty-four and I’d been teasing myself for hours. I’d taken it right to the edge several times and I had a couple of mini orgasms before I went for the big one.” He flexed his legs and wriggled on the duvet. “Oh, I’m so hard.”

“We haven’t even started yet.” John was affectionate in his amusement and gentle with his caresses, but he wanted to hear the end of the story. “So did the earth move for you?”

“No, everything went still, very still.” Sherlock paused and closed his eyes for an instant. “I had reached that point where you know that you’re about to come and time seemed to freeze on the crest of that initial spasm. It could only have been milliseconds, but it felt like forever before it hit. Then it was just incredible, fantastic, amazing, I literally couldn’t move afterwards.”

John gulped. That was a hell of a lot to live up to, but he wanted to subrogate that memory to one of his own making. Surely the state Sherlock was in had to give him some sort of head start? “So it wasn’t bad then?” he teased.

Sherlock fixed him with one of his ‘I-know-what-you’re-thinking’ stares. “You could make it better.” He arched his back. “Preferably in the next two minutes.”

“Ah, but you asked for slow and your wish is my command.” John knelt over Sherlock and ducked down to kiss him before that pretty mouth could spill wicked words. Sherlock locked his arms around his neck and the wiry hairs on his forearms tickled his throat. John felt the pressure of hard bone under the muscle. Sherlock’s lips had opened instantly and his tongue duelled with John’s in an attempt to incite reckless lust. Not that he needed that coffee tinged provocation. He was turned on enough without it, but he could be stubborn too and he knelt up when Sherlock tried to hook his leg over his thigh. “And you won’t last if I let you hump me.”

Sherlock made a face. “Just remember I’m the one who’s always right, not you.”   He lifted his bottom off the duvet and flopped back down. “Fuck…”

John giggled. “What’s the matter, Sherlock?” He kissed him again and his lips wove a path over jawline, cheeks and brow. “Everything’s fine, just lie back and think of England.”

The look Sherlock gave him could have frozen fire, but he curled his arm behind his head and wriggled down until he lay flat on the duvet.   John would miss his compliant Sherlock when this was over. He had enjoyed playing Captain Watson and being in command. John ran the back of his hand lightly down Sherlock’s side. “Will we ever do this again?”

“Yes, obviously, if I don’t die of old age while I’m waiting, now just get on with it.”

“Getting impatient, are we?”

John began with languid sweeps of his hands; over velvety skin from shoulder socket to the dip at the base of Sherlock’s throat and down his breastbone. The lure of his rosy nipples was irresistible and John’s fingers crab-walked across the quick rise and fall of his chest. He stretched his hand out over Sherlock’s heartbeat and tweaked that furled nub of nerves. A twist of his wrist made Sherlock catch his breath. “Hush, love.” John ducked down and the musk of arousal arising from Sherlock filled his senses. Lust jolted through him, but he controlled it and forced himself to go slowly, licking and nipping.

Sherlock grabbed the back of his head. “Ah, more.” The pressure on his skull forced John’s head down until his mouth was sealed around Sherlock’s left nipple.

He sucked on it, letting Sherlock think he had won and then he jerked away. John sat back on his heels with a salacious smile on his face. “That’s enough of that.”

“Did I ever tell you that you’re a complete-”

John silenced him with a kiss. It was the most effective method of shutting Sherlock up and the most enjoyable. Especially when Sherlock crushed his mouth in a rejoinder that gave no quarter. He tasted a teardrop of blood, of sweat and saliva. Real tears diluted his vision and John kissed Sherlock’s temple. “No bad language or I won’t play.”

“Arsehole.”

“Naughty, Sherlock, very naughty.”

John caressed Sherlock’s chest. He stroked his sides and ran his hand down his ribs until he reached his navel. His fingers flicked over the waistband of Sherlock’s short and he chuckled when Sherlock cursed him. He slid his hands upwards in perfect unison until they rubbed back and forth over taut nipples.

“John, please…” Sherlock tilted his tousled head back on the pillow, exposing his throat to John’s marauding lips. When he was marked he gasped and pushed his chest up to meet the sharp twists of John’s fingers. “Oh fuck.” He rocked his hips from side to side. “Touch my cock.”

“Soon,” rasped John. His fingers slipped and shook, so he clasped Sherlock’s shoulders to steady himself. “God, I love you.”

Sherlock opened his lust darkened eyes. “I love you, John Watson.”

A shared smile cemented the connection between them. Then John lowered his gaze to where Sherlock’s cock arched beneath his shorts. There was a wet circle of frustration where the engorged head strained the fabric and the desire to see it overcame John’s determination to make them both wait. He knelt at Sherlock’s side opposite the black iron stove. It was dusty and dark, but they could light it in the winter and do this all again by flickering firelight.

That was if Sherlock didn’t kill him before then. He hands were fisted around handfuls of feather filled duvet. “I’ll bring myself off if you don’t get on with it.”

“I’ll handcuff you if you try.” It was no empty threat. John had brought the heavy steel cuffs downstairs in case he needed to restrain Sherlock. “Besides you said that you wanted me to get you off.”

“I do.”   Emotion and frustration deepened Sherlock’s voice to a gravel and cut-glass baritone. “Only ever you.”

“I will, just trust me and I’ll make everything wonderful, better than the best.” John hoped to God that he could live up to that rash promise.

Sherlock waited, expectant and impatient. Nervousness constricted John’s throat. He saw his hands hook over the waistband of Sherlock’s shorts. He felt the pressure of anticipation and the snag of elastic on his fingers. Now he had to make good on his promise. “Here goes.”

Sherlock gave a deep relieved sigh when John tugged his boxer shorts down. He kicked them off and away. Everything was laid bare and his erection jerked up against his flat stomach with a flutter of precum. John stared at the weeping ooze, at the spots that had flecked Sherlock’s abdomen and licked away the one that had landed on his hand. It tasted of nothing and burst like an air bubble when the tip of his tongue spiked it.

“Oh, John.”

His name was breath torn, an erotic murmur that sent a tremor of impatience through his groin. “Christ, this is going to kill us both.”

“I’ll kill you.” Sherlock was totally without rancour. His gaze held love as well as tangled, tense passion.

John’s joy lit up his face with merriment. He was happy here. Happy now and the devil take the hindmost. He filched a kiss from lips that formed an O of desire. Then without further ado he coiled his hand around Sherlock’s penis. The resulting jolt was ample repayment for such a small effort. His laughter rippled in the air. “Tell me when you’re close.”

“I’m close.”

“Not close enough, I’m going to make you beg for it.”

“You can try, but don’t assume that you’ll succeed.” There was a sparkle of challenge in Sherlock’s eyes and a hint of desperation in his fidgety restlessness.

John tightened his grip and smiled triumphantly when Sherlock choked back a whimper. “You were saying?”

“Go to hell.” Sherlock lifted his arse off the duvet and pushed up into John’s hand.

John remembered his sister’s drunken prophesies of eternal damnation. He quickly blotted the image of her out of his mind before old wounds could bleed afresh. There was no room for spectres of sorrow in this night where only they existed.

He envied Sherlock’s complete absorption in the moment. But then he looked at him, truly looked with a lover’s eyes, and he too was lost. Drowning and burning in every tremor and nascence of thwarted lust. “Have I ever told you that you’re fucking beautiful?”

“Don’t talk nonsense.” Sherlock’s head tossed on the pillow and it wasn’t just arousal that stained his cheeks with colour.

“Even more so when you blush.” John kissed him adoringly. He uncurled his hand and ran it down Sherlock’s inner thigh. “Just a second, you don’t want Mr Cock to get all sore.” They had purchased the lubricant for this extra special occasion, natural, organic and twenty-five quid a bottle.

John flipped the cap up and let the odourless, colourless liquid pool in his palm. It shimmered on his skin, viscous and translucent, when he rubbed his hands together. Everything else, apart from the handcuffs which he hoped not to have to use, was packed away in the box upstairs. This was him – them- sole dependent upon whatever magic he could weave.

If it was enough, if this ended in disaster, then he would bear the brunt of Sherlock’s displeasure. It wasn’t that he feared Sherlock’s temper. John could give as good as he got, but he didn’t want to disappoint him. Deep breath then. He put his hands around Sherlock’s thick erection in an attitude of prayer, fingers together and thumbs nudged up against his frenulum. John rolled it between his palms, coating it with the lubricant and making Sherlock squirm in the process. That was a bonus, as were the gasps and sighs that endeared as well as titillated.  

“Nice?” whispered John.

“Good, so good.” Sherlock’s eyes were lust hazy and smoky black with desire. “More…I need more.”

“Just a little more.” John curled his legs under himself; oddly enough his non-existent war wound had started to ache. It had to be the tension had filled the room, sharp with sex and frustration. He clasped Sherlock’s upper thigh and took his cock in his other hand. There was that shiver of impatient pleasure again, renewed when he tightened and eased his grip. The rhythm was not so much slow as delicate, a bare tremor of his fingers on mid-shaft. He ignored the dewy corona and Sherlock’s come-heavy balls, and went on until loud gasps rent the air.

“More.” Sherlock kicked out, crumpling the duvet with his heels and crushing it into a thousand creases with his wriggling. “Oh fuck…”

John smirked and continued. He couldn’t do it wrong. This was the endgame and if Sherlock came from the mere flexing of his fingers it would only be something to boast about afterwards. And if he didn’t there were still many more teasing torments ahead. He slid his hand upwards and twisted it rapidly, once, twice and a third time before he stopped abruptly.

Sherlock moaned and cursed him so John did it again.

“Shush.” He cupped his hand around Sherlock’s balls and cradled them against the base of his cock. “You liked that.” John pushed Sherlock’s hair back off his face. It was all of a sweaty tangle and he needed a shave. He looked debauched and desperate. Perhaps too desperate for some of the things he had in mind. “How are you doing?”

Sherlock looked up and John’s own desires were reflected in his lust blown eyes. “Fine.” He grasped John’s bicep. “Do you still think that you can make me beg?”

“Oh, yes.” John sealed his vow with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting two chapters today as they are very much linked. 
> 
> There's still a bit more of the story to come though.


	30. Part Four Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We continue, this time from Sherlock's POV.

It would have been heavenly if it hadn’t been so tantalising; every languid touch sizzled through him. He jerked and gasped in expectation, but the slow masturbation was never quite enough to push him over the edge.

“God, I’m close,” he murmured.   He wanted to sob with frustration each time John drew his foreskin up over the ultrasensitive crown of his cock before easing it down again. Cool air kissed his exposed glans for a few seconds and then John enclosed them in his own warmth again. “Ah, John…”

John’s low laugh was ragged and lusty. There was a tremor in the fingers that traced the bias-relief of heavy veins up and round Sherlock’s rigid erection. “Soon, love.” He unfurled his hand and clasped Sherlock’s jutting hipbone. “I want to be sure I’ve got your full attention first.”

“You have. Now make me come.” He meant to sound sharp and authoritative, not to whine, yet there was an undeniable inflexion of desperation in his voice.

“Oh, I will.” John bent over him so that his quick breath gusted across Sherlock’s lips. “In my own good time.”

“You said soon and – Ah, Ohhh…” John gave his cock a few fast strokes and left him gasping on the brink.   “You’re a – Ah fuck!” John had repeated the action before pulling his hand away. “Bastard, bloody bastard.”

“All right, calm down, if it’s too much for you I’ll just have to take it slowly.”

Slowly was going to kill him, but Sherlock compressed his dry lips. There was no way on earth that he was going to beg for it. He bit down when his cock twitched and jerked, urgently seeking more stimulation. Through lust blurred eyes he saw John slide his lips down his thumb. Their gazes met as John lifted his head to allow it to slip free. “All nice and wet for you.”

Oh God, not that again. He had unleashed a demon whose sole purpose was to torture him.

“Not that you aren’t wet enough.” John sat with the heat of his thigh pressed into Sherlock’s flank. It was that again. He started to rub his damp thumb in lazy circles over his cockhead. It was almost more than Sherlock could stand when John pressed on his seeping slit. “Oh fuck, so close…”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

The venomous swear words Sherlock let fly just made John giggle breathlessly. There was a huge bulge in John’s shorts and even a few spots of precum on the ivory fabric, but he’d get no sympathy from him. Especially not when he alternated that thumb rubbing with the mercilessly slow up and down glide of his hand.   Sherlock shuddered. His pelvis was shaking and he knew that this deliberate teasing had to trigger his release eventually, if he didn’t go screaming mad first.

Yet it was incredible, every flick of John’s wrist produced a surge of sensation. Each one raced up to crest over the other and Sherlock didn’t know whether it had gone on for six minutes or six hours. It was forever, eternity. John had more than his attention. He had his life in his hands.   “God, please!”

“Please what?” John closed his hand around Sherlock’s glans and slid it down to the root of his cock.

“Make me come. I want to come!” Sherlock jiggled his hips frantically when John did it again.   He choked on a sob. His long fingers clawed at the duvet, dimly he felt and heard the cotton cover rip. “Ah, fuck.”

“I am making you come,” rasped John. “You should see yourself…” He made a V of his thumb and fingers to hold the base Sherlock’s juddering cock. His other hand followed the stark arc at the bottom of Sherlock’s heaving ribcage. It lingered on his hollowed out stomach where tension had pulled the muscles in and then John ran his hand down Sherlock’s inner thighs. “So fucking horny, so fucking beautiful.”

Sherlock twisted his head from side to side on the disarrayed cushions. His legs were quivering, toes curling and uncurling, and his impossibly full balls hurt. “Oh God, I haven’t come for so long, a month, an entire month…” He moaned when John jerked his distended cock. An image filled his mind, a word that hovered before his closed eyelids. Redbeard. He only had to say it, to scream it, and all this would end.

Yet John was luring him towards the summit with those wonderful, wicked hands of his; lover’s hands and he had never had a lover before. His devotion was too precious a pearl to cast away.

And he was so very close.

It wouldn’t take much more, not even at the steady pace John insisted upon. If he shrieked the safe word John would comply instantly, but the taint of failure would remain and John would blame himself for botching it at the eleventh hour. “Oh fuck, harder, faster…” Sherlock groaned, but he held the safe word in check. Wait, somehow he had to wait.

For John’s sake.

He writhed on the duvet. “I can’t wait,” he sobbed. “I need to come!”

“Hush, you’re nearly there. You’re losing little drops of come with every time I squeeze your cock.” John slid his hand up to the head of Sherlock’s erection. “There’s another one. Just a tiny bit longer…”

“Now!” Sherlock forced his eyes open and lifted his head from the cushion. “Oh God!” Turquoise veins bulged out all over his huge erection and droplets of pent-up semen 0ozed continuously from the purple flushed tip. Sherlock whimpered. “Oh god, please, it’s going to burst.”

“You are you mean.” John hooked an arm under his shoulders when Sherlock tried to drag himself up against the sofa. “Here, lean on me.”

Sherlock collapsed against him with a groan of gratitude. Not that he could keep still. He scissored his legs back and forth, clinging to John and thrusting his hips.   The continuous slow masturbation was driving him insane. “Ah, ahh, ahhh, fuck!”   He felt a mighty surge deep inside him. “Ah, ahh, coming, coming, coming!” It was inevitable, unstoppable and yet he hung for an instant on the threshold of the first intense contraction.

Semen spurted upwards, cascading over his stomach and John’s attentive hands. “Ah, yes! Yes, yes, yes…” A second vigorous spurt made him thrash about in ecstatic relief. It was happening. He was finally coming and his cock expelled jet after jet of semen as if it feared that it might be denied this rapture. “God, yes!” Lights danced before his closed eyelids, a carousal of red, orange and green. “Ah. Ahh…”   He juddered, gripped by violent aftershocks; a gentle hand stroked his hair and John’s whispered reassurance soothed him.

The duvet was a crush of padded cotton under his cheek and he couldn’t move. Not even when he realised that John was bringing himself off, racked by shudders and groaning his name. He wanted to watch, but his eyelids were too heavy. His chest was heaving and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. “John,” he murmured weakly, clutching the duvet in lieu of his lover.

A body slumped down beside him. An arm was thrown across his waist and John’s lips nuzzled his ear. “Give me a minute to get my breath back,” he gasped.

That minute bloomed into full darkness, into waking in a lover’s knot with a slow shift of moonlight flowing across the floor. Sherlock sighed and rolled onto his back. His limbs were lax and heavy, and his tender cock was nestled in his pubic hair. It felt almost bruised when he run his finger down it and he winced. Then he smiled. “Oh, you liked that.” He envisaged it in his mind’s eye, rigid and swollen on the verge of climax, and he chuckled happily. That had been an erection to be proud of.

He looked at John, curled beside him with stubble on his chin and moonlit semen on his thighs. There was something else to be proud of; his wonderful lover who had given him the best orgasm of his life.

*

“Saying please does not constitute begging.” Sherlock’s scowl failed to intimidate John.

He grinned, cheeky and cheerful. “Like hell it doesn’t.” John pummelled his pillow into shape and stuck it behind his back. “It certainly sounded like begging to me.”

“Well, it wasn’t.” Sherlock tried hard not to crack a smile. “I was just being polite.”

That one caused John to roll about in their bed, chortling with laugher. He wiped away his tears of amusement. “Was all that moaning and muttering just good manners as well then?”

“Not entirely,” admitted Sherlock with a chuckle.   He could feel the ghost of the previous day’s culmination in the niggling ache in his lower back and in the residual tenderness in his genitals. There was something else too, a shadow at the periphery of his consciousness. It lurked beyond happiness and camaraderie, beyond the love he felt for John and the tenderness of their lazy kisses.

“That’s what I thought.” John tugged on his hand, a silent encouragement to resume their embrace.

Sherlock nestled into his arms. He wriggled down in the bed until his head rested on John’s shoulder and craned his neck to nuzzle John’s throat. His tongue flicked over the taste of John and he was pleased by the little sigh that provoked. John cradled the back of his head, carding his fingers through his disarranged curls and he hooked his leg over John’s thighs.

It was warm in bed, all marshmallow soft and feather stuffed. He interlaced his fingers with John’s, not feeling the urge to talk or to make love or to do anything other than simply be. Here and now, in this moment with his lover. Sherlock shut his eyes, luxuriating in contentment. His thoughts drifted to memories that provoked a ghost shiver of excitement. It had been so wonderful when weeks of denial finally coalesced into a mind blowing orgasm. John had asked him afterwards if it had been worth the wait and he had breathed out a shaky yes. God, yes.

Why then did sorrow linger despise his refusal to acknowledge it? Perhaps because he feared that he wouldn’t ever reach that nirvana again. That it would hover like a sensual holy grail forever out of his reach, the perfect, never to be recreated, orgasm.

“I didn’t even think about stopping it,” he said and his abrupt statement was as much of a surprise to him as it was to John.  

John tilted Sherlock’s chin up so that he looked into his face. “You weren’t supposed to stop it.” He frowned. “What’s really bothering you?”

I don’t know sounded stupid. He was the one who was meant to know everything, the genius detective, but he said it anyway.

“You must have some idea,” replied John. He wriggled around so that they faced one another. “So share it.”

Sherlock swallowed. He still didn’t find all these expressions of emotion easy, especially when he wasn’t sure what he felt. “It was so good, utterly amazing, the way you teased me, the way I came, and I suppose I’m afraid that it’ll never be like that again.”

“It could be, but we might have to work at it.” John ran his hand down Sherlock’s bare arm. “I didn’t think that you’d last for a month and medically speaking you probably shouldn’t have, but it was one hell of a turn on.” He chuckled self-consciously. “The truth is once I got into it I loved it, even if you did have me climbing the walls sometimes.”

“ _You_ were climbing the walls? I don’t think I’ve ever been as horny in my life as I’ve been over the past few weeks.” Sherlock splayed his fingers across John’s chest and felt the reassuring thump of his heart. “And I never would have held out if it hadn’t been for you.” He grinned. “It was fucking marvellous.” Then his smirk wavered. “I couldn’t be all wound up like that when I’m on a case though, it’s too distracting.”

“There’ll be time between cases, not that you should do it too often. It isn’t good for your prostate.”

“High days and holidays.” Sherlock kissed John on the lips.   “There’s no need for you to worry, people do far more dangerous things to get their kicks, just look at autoerotic self- asphyxiation, that one just chokes me up.”

They giggled and John returned Sherlock’s kiss. “Leave the jokes to me, you’re terrible at it.” He brushed the back of his hand over Sherlock’s cheek in a gossamer caress. “You’re also a terrible temptation. Over these past few weeks I’ve gone from not gay and not interested to being bloody well besotted by you.”

John’s sincerity stole away any deflecting quip Sherlock might have made. “What if you don’t stay besotted?” he asked quietly. “How do we go on from here?”

“How do you want to go on, Sherlock? What are your limits?”   John looked unflinchingly into his face. “Don’t bullshit about, just tell me the truth.”

Anxiety made him wish that he could dissemble, but he wouldn’t play the coward’s part and John deserved total honesty. He smoothed out the crumpled sheet. “I’ve got used to us sleeping together and I wouldn’t want to wake up in the morning without you beside me. I never expected to fall in love with you or to have a sexual relationship with anyone. Yet it happened and I’m thankful that it did.”

“So am I,” said John softly.

Sherlock smiled in response. “My life would be very empty without you, but I can’t change my nature. “ He looked down at their linked hands and then into John’s eyes. “Everything we’ve done together has been fantastic, amazing, and I’d like to push the boundaries sexually – to share more – but I still don’t want to have anal sex.”

“We can work around that,” said John. “The most important thing is that we’re together and we love each other.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Did I ever say that I loved you?” He kissed John’s lips. “Well, I do, more than anything.”


	31. Part Four Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All good things come to an end but there are beginnings too...

Neither of them had packed. There wasn’t that much to take and it wasn’t as if they were never coming back. They had already agreed that they would return in October to celebrate John’s birthday and there wasn’t any reason why they couldn’t pop down in the interim. An hour on the train was nothing, it took longer than that to get from one side of London to the other. It was communing distance and they had discussed it briefly, but neither of them wanted to abandon their other home in Baker Street. So they were returning to London in the morning and against all logic it felt as if they were leaving Hambledon forever.

The rain had set in for the day and their hopes of a final roll on the grass had been dashed. So they had settled for dog-eared card games and rubbish telly interspersed with much canoodling.   Dense storm-cast cloud darkened the sky long before the August sunset. It was only seven in the evening when John pulled the curtains across the lounge window.   He switched on the lamp so that a soft yellowish glow illuminated the room.

John looked at the black iron stove, could it possibly be cold enough to light it on the second of August? Why not? October was a distant promise and he liked to see Sherlock with a glimmer of sweat on his pale skin. Dark hair curled wetly on his forehead and eyes black with lust in the firelight. “God, I’m obsessed,” he muttered ruefully.

“What with?” asked Sherlock as he kicked the lounge door shut behind him.

The smile that played around his mouth told John that he knew damn well, but he wasn’t going to take the bait. “Where have you been?” he pared.

Sherlock tapped the side of his nose. “That would be telling.”   He flopped down on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. “What’s for supper?”

“How should I know?” John grinned. “I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Oh, Mrs Hudson will be delighted. She’ll tell everyone that she always knew we were perfect for each other.”

“She won’t be far wrong then, will she?” John joined Sherlock on the sofa. “I was just too scared and stupid to see it.”

“I wouldn’t dispute that,” said Sherlock with a twinkle in his eyes. He leant across to claim a kiss that was affectionate rather than passionate.

“Somehow I didn’t think you would.” John settled easily into the circle of Sherlock’s arm. “I thought that we could light the stove tonight.”

“Did you now?” Sherlock chuckled. “Well, why shouldn’t we? I’ve no objection to a cliché if it involves you naked on the floor.”

John didn’t understand how Sherlock could still make him blush when he considered all the things they had done together, but blush he did, far redder than the embers of the fire which resisted all Sherlock’s attempts to light it.

“You’re not having a lot of luck with that,” said John cheekily after watching Sherlock struggle with the stove for ten minutes.

Sherlock scowled at him. “It’s a work in progress.” He shuffled round on his knees in front of the cold stove. “Get me a glass of brandy.”  

“What for?” demanded John suspiciously.

“I’m going to set fire to a Christmas pudding.” Sherlock put the heel of his hand against a log and thrust it firmly into place.

“You’ll probably set the house on fire if you light the stove with brandy.” In spite of his half-mocking censure John went to pour the brandy. He wasn’t averse to taking stupid risks just so that they could shag in front of an open fire.   The brandy shimmered in the cut-glass bowl and John filled two more glasses. “Here, one for me, one for you and one for the stove. Let’s hope you’ve got fire insurance.” He eyed the slope of Sherlock’s spine and the jutting curve of his hipbones. “And life insurance.” He held the cool glass against Sherlock’s bare shoulder. “Just don’t set fire to Mr Cock.”

Sherlock’s chuckle was as rich and warm as the brandy. “I know what I’m doing.” He reached up, brushing his fingers over John’s as he took the glass. It tilted and amber liquid drizzled down his hand. John reclaimed the glass and set it down on the hearth. He clasped Sherlock’s brandy damp hand and knelt beside him on the carpet. His gaze met Sherlock’s as he raised his hand to lips and licked away the aromatic moisture. Then he wove his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, offering him the richness of the brandy in his kisses.  

Sherlock twisted away from the dead fire and pulled John close. John felt Sherlock’s legs compress his own right thigh and the round press of his knee into his groin. He wriggled into the contact, into the flat plane of Sherlock’s chest with his arms locked around his narrow waist. His chin found a familiar perch on Sherlock’s right shoulder and closed his eyes to savour the glide of his beloved’s hands over his skin. “Mmmm…”

Sherlock sniggered and kissed the crown of this head, nuzzling his fairish hair. “We’ve got a fire to light.”

“So light it.” John dragged Sherlock down onto the carpet. He rolled him over and draped his leg across his muscular thigh. “Or has Mr Cock had enough?”

“What do you think?” Sherlock lifted his pelvis and ground his erection into John’s stomach. “Lie on top of me.”

John blinked in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“More than sure.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hips and tugged.

It was easy to yield, to lower himself into Sherlock’s waiting arms. It was a little more difficult to find the perfect fit; that place was bones didn’t dig into one another, and where limbs and muscles weren’t stretched or squashed.   John rested his head in the hollow of Sherlock’s right shoulder and he felt the heavy rhythm of his breathing beneath his cheek. He kissed warm skin that tasted of Sherlock and rubbed his face against it like a contented cat. Sherlock clasped his skull, long fingers buried themselves in his hair and he encircled John’s waist with his other arm.

“Are you okay?” murmured John. He kissed his way along Sherlock’s jawline to his lips in the wake of the question and the ardent response left him in no doubt as to the answer even before Sherlock whispered his name. John levered himself up so that he could ravage Sherlock’s mouth and almost slid off, but Sherlock locked his arm around his waist, holding him securely against the heat of his body. They kissed, mouths open wet with the dew of their lust. The pressure soared. Lips and tongues locked into a loving duel until they simply had to separate for quick gulps of air.

This time John got it right. He braced his weight on his hands, lowering his head to kiss Sherlock again before he began to rock his hips.

Sherlock’s eyelids flickered, closing to mere slits and his head arched back. “That’s good.”

John nodded and stole another kiss from his parted lips. He bore down. “Who…needs…a fire?”

Sherlock’s giggle turned into a gasp. He thrust up to meet John’s downward stroke. “Good, so good…”

He traced the contours of John’s back, rubbing the flat of his hands over his sides and thighs. John whimpered and thrust faster, massaging their erections between their stomachs. Skin slid against skin, first one way and then the other, escalating the sensation. His cock had found a farrow in the cease of Sherlock’s thigh and it twitched with every upward surge. “Bugger...” John propped himself up on his elbow and fumbled for it. He tucked it in, up against Sherlock’s bulging erection, and paused to gaze at him adoringly. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” whispered Sherlock. “Come here.” He pulled John right back down on top of him so that they were pressed together from neck to knee. His groan of delight sent a shiver down John’s spine. “Harder…”

John was happy to oblige. He flexed his hips, squeezing their cocks together, and began to thrust urgently. His movements soon became swift and irregular, and his groans mingled with Sherlock’s frantic moans. He felt Sherlock jerk upwards beneath him, all clumsy and erratic. Then he spread his legs, increasing the rolling pressure on both their erections. “Oh fuck,” he whimpered and his hot breath gusted over John’s neck.

It was too quick and too soon, but John couldn’t hold back the tide. He shook violently in Sherlock’s arms, moaning his name as he came.

“John!” Sherlock crushed John against his body, compressing his cock between them and rolling his hips. Orgasm throbbed through him in long drawn out shudders that left him crumpled beneath John’s weight. He pushed feebly at his shoulder and John rolled over onto the carpet at his side.

“God…” John chuckled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “It gets better every time.”

“You get better every time.” Sherlock ran the back of his fingers along John’s jawline. “Thank you.”

John swallowed the knot of emotion in his throat and gathered Sherlock up into his arms. They shared a loving kiss and then relaxed with contented sighs into a blissful silence.

*

It was the scrap of draught blowing in under the door that finally got them up off the floor and into pyjamas and dressing gowns.

Sherlock was determined not to be beaten by the stove and a glass of brandy poured over the damp logs finally ignited the fire. He curled up on the sofa with John to bask in the heat of his triumph. They had reopened the brocade curtains and the lounge cast its mirror image onto the dark garden. Here and there half-hearted rain pattered onto the window glass otherwise it was deliciously quiet.

John yawned and snuggled into Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s too early for bed, but I can’t be bothered to do anything.”

“Neither can I,” said Sherlock who usually found not doing anything totally mind-numbing. He shifted position until they rested even more comfortably against each other. John’s hand lay on his upper thigh and although he wasn’t in the mood for further sexual activity Sherlock tucked it into his groin. John gave him a gentle squeeze through his pyjamas and then let his hand lie lax. Sherlock rested his cheek on the crown of John’s head, enjoying the softness of his hair on his skin and the reassuring slow tempo of his breathing.  

Eventually John lifted his head so that they could share another kiss. “I bought you a present,” he said running his finger over Sherlock’s collarbone and not quite meeting his eye. “Back before we had all that trouble. Then I went and…after I’d screwed around with that woman it didn’t seem right to give it to you. It would have seemed too much like an apology or a bribe.”

Sherlock remembered that a small package had arrived the day after John had been unfaithful to him for the first and last time. A few days ago he would have told him where to stick his present, but they had weathered the storm and all was forgiven. He had already concealed his gift for John under the sofa cushions. Sherlock reached out discreetly to check for the bump of a box.   There it was. Sherlock smiled. “I’m very susceptible to bribery.”   He stroked John’s face to dispel the creases of anxiety around his eyes. “So where’s my present?”

“It’s in the kitchen drawer. I’ll go and get it.” John hauled himself to his feet. “It’s only a little thing mind, nothing to get excited about.”

Sherlock stretched his arms out along the back of the sofa and winked at him. “I never get excited.”

“I’ll put that on your gravestone,” laughed John. He ruffled Sherlock’s hair and darted away before he could grab his wrist. “Shall I bring us back a bottle of wine?”

“One of the good ones, try the Chateau Haut Brion, 1974.”

“Suits me, it’s your inheritance we’re drinking.”

Sherlock sighed and tilted his head back when John padded barefoot into the kitchen. There were finer vintages than the Chateau Haut Brion in grandmamma’s wine cellar, but they were for a special occasion. Perhaps for a very special occasion.

John returned before Sherlock had time to chide himself for such absurd sentimentality. A small square shape filled John’s right pocket and he carried the open wine bottle and two of grandmamma’s best glasses.

Once filled the rim of the glass sparkled in the fire glow and the dark crimson wine had a smooth gleam on the surface when Sherlock tilted the glass towards the light. He took one slow swallow before he put it down and held his hand out to John.

Sherlock hadn’t been in the least bit cold, but he felt warm through and through when John snuggled in beside him. He wondered idly if they could stay like this forever; cuddled up in front of the fire with nothing more complex to solve than the mystery of the box in John’s pocket. “You said that had a present for me,” he murmured with his lips almost touching John’s earlobe.

“A small present,” cautioned John. He reached into his dressing gown and drew out a flat box wrapped in unadorned royal blue tissue paper. “Still it’s the thought that counts.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “And what thought was that?”

They chuckled and exchanged a few more languid kisses before Sherlock sat back. “What have we here?”

“Open it and find out.”

Sherlock was unable to resist a little gentle teasing. “Shall I see what I can deduce from it first? There’s a wodge of sellotape on this end where the person who wrapped it tried to compensate for having cut the paper too small and a slight tear at the other where he pulled it too tight.” He tossed the box up in the air and caught it deftly in his left hand. “The conclusion is obvious, one might almost say elementary my dear John, I shall still have to get Mrs Hudson to wrap my Christmas presents.”

“What bloody Christmas presents? I never got one last year.”

“You will be compensated,” promised Sherlock. He hooked his finger under the thick tape and tore the flimsy tissue away and let it drift to the floor. The box fit neatly into the palm of his hand. It was covered in navy blue leather with frayed corners and a scratched gold trim. Second-hand then with faint odour of the polish had had buffed the old case to a smooth shine. It was different, intriguing and he was gripped by a childlike anticipation. He tipped it to one side and something knocked against the side of the box. He looked up at John who pulled his face. “Sorry, it wasn’t meant to come loose.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock flipped the lid up. There, tumbled into a corner, shank uppermost was a silver signet ring. He gazed at it for a few seconds before he plucked it up and turned it over. Irish shamrocks in filigree silver flanked a square head engraved with a block script S. It was elegant and charming and –

“You don’t like it,” said John.

“I adore it.”   Sherlock touched his lips to John’s. “Thank you.”

John blushed and tried to sound grumpy. “The shop didn’t even pack it in a proper ring box, but it seemed just the thing somehow. I could imagine you wearing it, assuming that it fits you that is.”

“It’ll fit.” Sherlock assured him. He slipped the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand. It felt odd at first, a cold unaccustomed weight on his finger, but he liked the way it looked when he held his hand out to show John.

“That’s how I imagined it would look,” said John softly. There was a gentle light in his eyes and he slid his hand under Sherlock’s. “As if it belonged there.”

“You belong here or with me wherever I am.”   Sherlock saw tears glaze John’s eyes and his own vision blurred. He blinked rapidly. He had never expected to love or to be loved.   Wonderment and gratitude threatened to swarm his analytical cynicism. He was he kidding? That was already in tatters as far as John was concerned. Love makes fools of us all whispered an acid edged voice in his head. Yet it couldn’t wound or dismay, he would love John no matter how much of a fool it made him. “I’ve got a gift for you,” he said, although he was afraid that it wasn’t nearly as nice as the one on his hand.

John’s face lit up which just made him more nervous. “It was a spur of the moment purchase, a bit of an in joke really…” Sherlock scrambled about under the cushion for the burgundy box. He hadn’t thought to wrap it. “Here,” he said unceremoniously and thrust it into John’s hand. “You don’t have to wear it.”

John’s smile wavered and he eyed the box dubiously. “It’s not a cock ring, is it?”

“No, it’s not any sort of ring.”   Sherlock tapped the box. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Do I want to?” asked John with a wry grin. Then he did so and a soft amused chuckle made Sherlock draw a shaky breath of relief. John lifted the silver pendant out of the box and let it swing from his hand. “Is that meant to be a bloody lilac tree?”

“It’s a tree,” said Sherlock defensively, “type unspecified.”   The design had been engraved into a simple silver disk which dangled from a curb chain.

John lifted the pendant so it hung before his face. “It looks more like an oak to me, not that it matters. Is that what I am then, your lilac tree?”

“In a manner of speaking, but I was never in love with the tree.”

“That’s nice to know.” A faint colour infused John’s cheeks. “I’ve never worn jewellery before. It didn’t go with my macho image, but what the hell…” He reached up and fastened the chain around his neck and the silver disk gleamed against his skin. “What do you think?”

“It suits you.” Sherlock touched the edge of the disk and the creamy skin surrounding it. “I’ve obviously got good taste in jewellery.”

“And in men?”

“Undoubtedly.” They embraced, holding tight and rocking gently. Sherlock rested his chin on John’s shoulder and closed his eyes. With his hand in the small of John’s back he scrunched up his dressing gown into a bundle. He smiled at himself for behaving like a child clinging to a raggedy soft toy.  

John kissed the side of his neck. “Love you,” he whispered.

Sherlock cupped his face in his hands and gazed at him adoringly. “I love you too.”   He felt John swallow nervously. “What’s the matter?”

There was a more than a hint of self-conscious doubt in John’s expression. “Nothing, I was thinking that maybe we should make some sort of commitment, one of those partnership things or something…it’s probably a bad idea, but…well, say something.”

“Fucking hell!”

They giggled helplessly, shattering the tension with their laughter.

Sherlock clasped John’s upper arms. “Do you just ask me to marry you?”

“Sort of – I mean they aren’t going to legalise gay marriage until next year, but neither of us are religious and we don’t want a big fuss, a straightforward civil partnership would do just fine.”

“Not that straight, dearie,” said Sherlock archly. He didn’t know how to deal with this unforeseen proposal, but one look at John told him that this was not the time for bad jokes. “I’m sorry, I...” He was barely able to believe that John was serious about this, although it was himself that he doubted. Why on earth would anyone want to spend their life with him? He was an egotistical, anti-social bastard. “Wouldn’t you mind people knowing about us?”

“Most of them knew before we did.” John shrugged. “Actually it might even help to deflect all the gossip.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. “We get married to stop people talking about us? I don’t think you’ve thought that one through.”

“Yes, I have and it’s not just to stop people talking, very far from it, but what can they say if we’re open about our relationship? Yes, we’re a couple, now tell us how you found the murder victim.” The animated light faded in John’s eyes and he lowered his gaze. “Look, it’s a crap idea and we don’t have to-”

“You do realise that you’d have Mycroft for a brother-in-law? And let’s not even mention my parents, you haven’t met them yet so you’ve haven’t the faintest idea what you would be letting yourself in for.”

“You’ve met Harry so you know exactly what you’d be letting yourself in for.”

“The Holmes-Watson’s cordially invite you for dinner, drunkenness, debauchery and back stabbing. Please bring your own stiletto.” Sherlock grew serious again in the wake of their giggles. “I suppose that the idea had crossed my mind, so I’m not completely opposed to a civil partnership, it’s just…” He resisted saying ‘it’s all so sudden’ a trite cliché like that would make John think that he was laughing at him. “I’m not sure that I’m marriage material. I’ll go off on my own and forget to tell you things-”

“You’ll choose not to tell me things because you like to be all mysterious.” John put his hand over Sherlock’s and interlaced their fingers. “But that’ll happen anyway and I’ll still be bloody furious with you whether we’re married or not.”

Sherlock knew that was true. The love they felt for one another would not diminish whatever decision they made now, here in grandmamma’s house – their house – with the past and all its ghosts behind them. He looked down at the ring on his hand. They would need other rings, gold wedding bands with their initials intertwined. “Let’s do it then.”

John’s expression was a priceless mixture of astonishment and disbelief. “God, wow, er…okay.”

They quibbled over which one of them should telephone the registry office and over who to invite to the brief ceremony, but neither of them doubted that they belonged together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this final chapter in haste before I go on holiday for a couple of weeks so apologies for any typos, missed words etc.
> 
> Also apologies for not replying to recent comments. (I will when I get back).
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos, comments and above all else for taking the time to read my story. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Fay.


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